Surrender
by Erisjade16
Summary: She remembers The Soldier... He doesn't remember her at all...
1. Chapter 1

_Then….._

Sometime after midnight, Amel catches the scent of blood on the air.

Unable to sleep, which is nothing out of the ordinary on these lonely winter nights, she steps out onto the porch of her little cabin and is caught off guard by the smell of it. Can tell, immediately, that it's not the blood of an animal. It's unmistakably human. And much, much too close for her liking.

For a long moment, she stands staring out into the darkened treeline bordering her tiny front yard. Aside from the fact that hunting season has been over for weeks, no hunter would be out at this hour. None with any sort of common sense. So she doesn't understand. Is confused by this new presence. It's smell.

She's tempted to let it be. Can't imagine who would be foolish enough to be out at this hour, in this weather.

But she _can't_ let it be. So, she goes back inside. Throws on a pair of jeans, tugs on her favorite over-sized cable knit sweater over the T-shirt she'd been lounging in, punches her feet into a ratty old pair of hiking boots, and sets off into the night.

The moon is high. Its light glitters and sparkles in lovely patterns across the snow, illuminating her path, though her wolf eyes need little assistance.

The scent is easy to follow. It's thick and cloying on her tongue. It hangs heavy in the air. Metallic. Underscored with notes of gun powder and oil. And something more. Something she can't quite place.

She cuts quickly through the silent forest. Finds what she's looking for less than a quarter mile from her place.

For a moment, she can't piece together what she's seeing. A man is on the ground, slouched against a tree, blood pooling across the snow beneath him.

He is most definitely _not_ a hunter. At least not like any she's seen before. _What_ he is, she's not sure. He's wearing what looks like tactical gear. Dressed all in black with a startling array of ammunition belts and buckles banded across his broad chest. There are knives in sheaths strapped to his thighs. A gun at his hip. Something silver glints at her in the surrounding shadows, where his left shoulder should be, which is somewhat out of view.

His head is bowed, and a tangled mess of longish dark hair shields his face. She listens. Can hear his heart beating out an almost sluggish rhythm inside his chest. His breathing is slow, but even. He's alive, though not for long if she leaves him to bleed, or to succumb to hypothermia.

She can't very well leave him, not entirely out of concern for his safety and well-being. Moreover, there might be others. Might be others like him, and she isn't willing to totally risk her peace and solitude for this wounded stranger.

Tentatively, she takes a step toward him. Starts to move around him to approach him head on so as not to startle him.

"Sir," she calls softly, her booted feet crunching over the hard-packed snow. Her eyes scan the surrounding darkness for any potential threats. "Sir? Can you hear me?"

No response. If he's unconscious, he'll be damn near impossible to move. She's small and, even with her shifter strength, she'd still struggle under the weight and bulk of him.

She bites back a curse as she continues to move, stepping slowly around his outstretched legs.

She lowers herself to a crouch, eyes scanning his body for the point of origin of all this blood. There's a tear in his right pant leg, just above his knee, the black cloth made even darker by the blood soaking through the material. She leans closer, starts to reach a hand out to examine it more closely, and is brought up short by the ice cold feel of a knife at her throat.

There's no fear in her. For a second she is merely surprised. Then, resigned. Doesn't move. Waits for the stranger to speak. Or slice her throat. Whichever comes first.

She mentally chastises herself for not staying home.

There's a long moment of silence, of stillness, during which Amel holds her body on edge. Swallows against the kiss of the blade against her skin. Listens to the still steady beating of the stranger's heart.

Finally he moves, slowly raising his head, his hair falling away to reveal his face. Surprisingly handsome, if she doesn't count the knife he's holding to her throat. Bright, clear blue eyes in stark contrast to his pale skin and dark brow. Full lips starting to turn the faintest shade of blue amid the light scruff of a dark beard.

The glint of silver catches her eye again, and she allows her gaze to follow it. To settle on his arm. Which appears to be made entirely of overlapping metal plates.

She blinks. Blinks again. Is having trouble comprehending this.

"Who are you? Who sent you?"

The gruff sound of his voice brings her attention back to his face. For someone who's wounded out in the middle of nowhere in the dead of winter, he is oddly calm and focused.

She licks her lips. Advises herself not to make any sudden movements.

"My name is Amel," she says in the softest tone she can manage. "You're on my land."

He doesn't respond. Nor does he lower the knife. His eyes move over her face, perhaps gauging her words, her intent, then flick back up to hers. They narrow as they take in the oddness of her own.

A slight, almost imperceptible tremor starts in his hand and she latches on to that.

"You're hurt. I can help you, if you'll let me. My house isn't too far from here."

He remains still. Keeps the knife at her throat. The scent of his blood moves around her and, now, she knows what the something more is that she'd noticed before. His arm. The metal. It smells hot. Electric.

She sees him swallow. She's growing tired of this stalemate. Thinks he probably is, too. He hasn't killed her yet, so that's something.

"Listen, pal, I can leave you here, which is totally fine, but you're in pretty bad shape. Let's get you warm and cleaned up, and then you can get back to...whatever it was you were doing before I came along to bother you."

Silence.

The forest shifts around them. Snow settling on bare branches.

He swallows deeply. Then, thankfully, slowly lowers the knife down to his side. She stays on her haunches. Offers him a grateful smile.

"Can you put weight on that leg?"

He gives a small, sharp nod. Reluctant. Doesn't seem like a man used to asking for or receiving help. She completely understands.

"Ok, big fella, let's get you out of this mess."


	2. Chapter 2

He remembers bits and pieces. Fragments. The bone deep cold chill of snow beneath him. The throbbing, pulsing pain in his leg. A soft, melodic voice whispering of assistance. Of help.

Then warmth. A crackling, dancing fire. Soft hands. Then, even softer fur. A smell. Clean. The forest at night.

What he doesn't remember is her. This woman sitting across from him, unbothered by the magnetic shackle linked around her thin, brown wrist, keeping it immobile against the tabletop.

She claims to know him. The _other_ him. The Winter Soldier. Though she doesn't appear afraid. And he doesn't understand the connection that seems so apparent to her.

And that scent, the clear, crisp scent of night time in the forest, covers her. Drifts off of her in waves. Teases his brain. Wraps slim fingers around his beating heart and _begs_ him to remember.

"I'm sure you can understand our position, ma'am." Steve pipes up next to him. "A stranger comes into the Tower asking to speak with the 'Winter Soldier. Claims to know him... from before. It raises a lot of questions."

Her eyes - strange eyes, impossibly dark brown eyes, rimmed in a thin line of pale, glowing gold - drift away from him. Reluctantly. She's kept her gaze on him through most of this chaos, only looking away when spoken to.

"I understand," she says simply, and that voice is like a punch to the gut. Pulls at him. Tugs at him. Brings a ghostly tingle to his lips.

He clenches his fists beneath the table, the cybernetic arm whirring and clicking softly in his ear.

There's a long pause. Her eyes move back to him, and he thinks she smiles at him.

"You have no reason to believe me. To trust me. Especially since the one person who could corroborate my story seems not to remember me."

There's a bit of sadness in those lovely eyes. A stark change from the serene look she's had since this all began, even when she'd been in the process of being handcuffed and carted off to this very room.

Everything else about this woman feels familiar. Except the woman herself, and he hates that he can't remember because he knows what will happen if they can't make sense of this. She'll end up in a cell for the rest of her life. Possibly worse. And a part of him rebels against that thought. He's certain she knows this. Why risk it?

"So, why are you here?" Steve again. He's leaning forward over the table, blue eyes watching their captive closely.

She licks her lips and Bucky's eyes track the movement of that bit of pink flesh. Something shifts through him, something warm and light which tickles across his shoulders and pokes at his memory.

The woman sighs. Tugs half-heartedly on the magnetic shackle around her wrist.

"I had to know he was all right. We spent almost a year together." She stops herself, as if there's more she's not wanting to say. Curls her tongue over her top teeth.

Steve glances from her to Bucky and back again, and he can see the color rising in the other man's smooth cheeks. "Excuse me for asking, but… were you two… lovers?"

Bucky might have laughed at Steve's obvious embarrassment had he not wanted to know the answer to this question, as well.

Her full lips curve in a gentle, almost wry smile. "Yes."

There's a long moment of heavy silence. Her response settles in his brain. Feathers through his understanding.

She was a lover to the Winter Soldier. How? Why? The Soldier was a machine. A tool. Hard and unforgiving. Deadly. What could he have known of love or desire? What could this admittedly lovely little being have found appealing in that monster?

"I'm sorry," she says now. Addressing Bucky directly and he realizes this is the first time she's done so. "You told me, _warned_ me, to stay away. I just needed to know…"

She shakes her head. Brings her free hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Then laughs. "How's this for rash and impulsive?"

He offers his own smile. He can't help it. There's just something about her.

"Ma'am," Steve says and her eyes flick to him.

"Amel. My name is Amel."

The name is familiar. He can imagine whispering it. Sighing it. Moaning it. He doesn't remember this woman but, obviously, his body does.

"Amel." Steve nods. "You understand we can't just let you leave here. You're a risk, and we know next to nothing about you, except your name and that you have some sort of connection to Bucky."

"Bucky." She repeats his name. Tries it out on her tongue. Shakes her head.

"We don't know if you're friend or foe," Steve goes on. "So, the question becomes, what do we do with you?"

"I'll take her."

The words are out of his mouth before the thought is even fully formed. He doesn't know what he's doing; he just knows that he can't stand the thought of her being out of his sight.

She blinks at him. Offers another one of those soft smiles.

Steve turns to him in his seat. "Bucky, I don't know if that's a good idea."

"I don't remember her," Bucky says, taking in the look of concern on his best friends face. "I can't explain it, but she... _feels_ familiar. I'll keep an eye on her. She'll be my prisoner, if that makes you feel better. My responsibility."

Steve looks like he's about to argue. He must see something in Bucky's face, his eyes, because eventually he gives a reluctant nod.

"Fine. Take her to your apartment. I'll send Wanda in to check her out before you go. I'll meet up with you later." He sighs. "I should talk to the others about this."

Bucky is relieved. He looks to the woman across from them. She's peering back at him with those strange, gold-rimmed eyes.

"Thank you."

He nods.

Steve pushes back in his seat. Places a heavy hand on Bucky's shoulder.

"Ma'am," he says, nodding to the woman before turning on his heel and starting for the door.

Her voice stops him.

"Who is Wanda and why does she need to check me out? I'm not hurt, or ill."

Steve takes a few steps back toward the table.

"Wanda is our best chance of clearing your identity. She's… Well, she can look into your mind. See if you really are who you say you are."

The woman seems to mull this over. Doesn't seem at all surprised by the fact that they're bringing in someone who can read her mind.

She tilts her head back, eyes shifting to a point beyond them.

"Well," she says after a long moment, looking between the two men. "In the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you that I'm a shifter."

Bucky doesn't know what this means. Steve voices their mutual confusion.

"I'm sorry. A what?"

"I can change my form. Human legend calls me 'werewolf'." Her lips twist around the word, as if she finds it disgusting.

Another long moment of silence while they take in this new bit of information. It's not the craziest thing they've encountered, but it's still difficult to wrap their minds around.

"A werewolf?" Steve queries, and Bucky can hear the disbelief in his voice.

The woman, for her part, takes it in stride. "'Werewolf' implies some sort of humanoid being. I am not that. I'm what's considered a 'Pure Blood'. Born a wolf. When I shift, I _am_ a wolf." She shrugs one thin shoulder. "That's the best way I can explain it. It would be easier to simply show you."

Bucky doesn't know what to say. Wonders if he'd known this about her before. Tries to picture what she's described for them.

Steve holds up a hand. "Maybe later," he says. "Are there more like you?"

This question seems to get the biggest reaction out of her. Her pretty eyes goes soft. Her fingers curl loosely atop the table. And, when she speaks, the strain of sadness in her words is unmistakable. Heart breaking.

"None who will come looking for me. My pack is dead."

This time she cannot meet Bucky's gaze. He catches the shimmer of tears in her eyes before she looks away. They make the gold shine and glint in the bright wash of artificial light brightening the room.

He wonders what could have happened. Wonders if he's the cause.

"All right," Steve says, breaking the uncomfortable silence that's fallen over them all. "I'll send Wanda in. Shouldn't take long to find her."

Steve looks at Bucky, but Bucky can't take his eyes off the woman. She's tucked in on herself. She leans forward. Rests her forehead on the table. Takes a deep, shaky breath.

He wants to reach out to her. She's obviously hurting. He has a strong desire to comfort her. To wrap her up in his arms. To feel her warmth against him.

It's all quite unnerving. Had the Soldier felt the same way about her? Had he been capable of it?

Steve leaves, the quiet whoosh of the hydraulic door signifying his departure. And he's left alone with this woman who is both a stranger to him and, somehow, not.


	3. Chapter 3

Alone now, the silence stretches. Fills the space between them. Around them. The cold of the metal table feels good against Amel's forehead and, if she closes her eyes, she can imagine she's somewhere else. Or that everything has worked out as she'd hoped and, now, she's just waiting.

Waiting…

"I'm sorry."

His voice drifts to her in the cool stillness of the room. Rough and deep the way she remembers, though a bit tentative now. Unsure.

She doesn't move for a long moment. Then, finally, she pushes up in her chair. Waves a dismissive hand.

"You warned me," she says. "I took a chance. It was a long shot."

She's trying to sound indifferent but, in truth, this hurts. She's worn out and angry with herself. Smoothing her free hand over the tabletop, she cocks her head to the side and looks at him from beneath the fringe of her dark lashes. Tries to hang on to the tiny ribbon of hope that remains fluttering about inside her stomach.

"You don't remember anything? Nothing at all."

He takes a moment to think, his blue gaze drifting, as if he's searching the wall behind her for answers.

"I remember the cold," he says slowly. Thoughtfully. "I remember… pain… in my leg." His dusky brow furrows. Forms a shallow well at the center of his forehead, and she wants to reach out and smooth over the skin with her fingertips. "You smell familiar. You smell…" He stops. Sighs. Brings his lovely gaze back to her. "Safe."

Amel nods. Offers a small smile, though she knows it's unsteady and wavering around the edges. Releases a slow breath between slightly parted lips.

"Well, that's something, huh?"

She tilts her head back, and takes a deep breath, which is a terrible idea, because it fills her nose with his scent. Metal and oil and warm skin. She can taste it on her tongue.

She blames television for her current predicament. She'd been doing just fine in the almost three years since he'd been gone. Three years since those men – Hydra, he'd called them – had stormed her cabin and he'd ordered her to run. To never look back. To forget him. Three years since she'd watched in wolf form from the cover of the forest with her heart beating in her throat as they'd, literally, dragged him away.

Sure, she'd been just fine. Lonely. However, lonely was nothing new, except she dreamed of him. Often. Found herself reaching for the empty space in her bed, lost in that hazy place between dreams and full awareness. Forgetting, for a few blissful moments, that he was long gone.

Lonely was no longer just the death of her pack. No, lonely was the remembered feel of him and the cool smoothness of his metal arm curled over her.

Lonely was the hazy memory of a smile that came lightening quick and was gone just as fast, as if it had never existed.

Lonely was the ache at the center of her chest which never seemed to go away. It was thick. Heavy. Hollow.

And then she'd been on a supply run in town – a new town, of course – waiting to pay her tab in the little diner she sometimes popped into on her way back up to her solitary life on the mountain, when she'd caught sight of a man who looked very much like her Soldier on the little TV mounted on the wall opposite her.

Amel thought her heart had stopped beating.

She'd moved closer, the shiny formica counter the only thing keeping her standing as she stared open-mouthed and eyes wide behind the dark sunglasses she wore. Watched the images on the screen in complete astonishment and utter confusion. Looked at the Soldier at the far right, standing in a small group with _The Avengers,_ looking as if he'd have much preferred to have been anywhere in the world other than where he was.

He was alive.

He was OK.

He was on _fucking TV_ , not dead and buried, or off being tortured in some secret location she'd never heard of and whose name she would never be able to pronounce.

It couldn't be him? Could it?

Of course, it was. Her hands knew the cut of those shoulders beneath the well-worn and familiar tactical gear. Knew the messy fall of hair around that impossibly handsome, scruffy face. Remembered, vividly, the feel of it against the skin of her arms. Between her thighs. Her lips knew the sharp cut of his jawline. And, those eyes. Those eyes that still haunted her damn dreams.

"Who's that? The guy in black?" she asked the teenaged cashier, unable to look away from the screen as she clumsily handed over her money.

The girl looked back. Made some small, appreciative sound and sighed out, "The Winter Soldier."

Amel did _not_ like the tone with which the girl said it. It was wistful. Lustful. It brought her wolf to full attention inside her head.

"He's an Avenger?"

The girl shrugged, her eyes lingering on the screen until the news story finally ended and the screen cut to a weather report.

"It's a weird story. He was Captain America's best friend way back when. Long story short, he was a bad guy, now he's a good guy." The girl laughed, her thin hand outstretched to give Amel her change. She leaned forward over the counter to add in a conspiratorial whisper, "I don't care what he is. That man is damn fine."

Amel blinked rapidly behind her sunglasses. Took her change and, without another word, turned and fled the diner.

It took an entire month to work up the courage to seek him out. An entire month of scouring the internet for information at the local library. Learning of a past the Soldier hadn't remembered and, thus, had been unable to share with her. An entire month for the need to see him to grow as big and bright as a balloon.

She had to see him. Had to speak to him. Had to know if he remembered her after all this time.

Which brings her to the here and now. Locked in an interrogation room and handcuffed to a table because of a stupid news clip on a stupid TV in a stupid diner in the middle of stupid-fucking-nowhere.

The Soldier is staring at her now, blue eyes clear and focused. He offers her an awkward sort of half-smile. She looks away. Finds it very hard to look at him anymore, guilt and what feels very much like regret twisting sharply through her.

No. He's not the Soldier anymore. Bucky. Then wants to laugh because he doesn't look like a Bucky at all. Handsome still. Quiet. Watchful. Intense. Not so many shadows behind his eyes and less tension in his powerful body. The same man, but… not…

What does she know, really? If she knew anything at all, she would have stayed away. Would have followed his orders and forgotten about him. Just as he'd, obviously, forgotten about her.


	4. Chapter 4

Wanda arrives much sooner than either of them expect. Bucky is busy examining Amel. She's pretty. Small. Standing at full height, the top of the woman's head will probably barely reach his chin. She's lean, though generously curved in all the right places. He wonders how she'll fit against his body. Wonders if her smooth, coffee-colored skin is as soft as it looks.

His appraisal is cut short by the sound of the door sliding open again, followed by the soft squeak of Wanda's combat boots echoing quietly inside the small room.

Amel straightens in her seat. He notices the way her eyes – God, what strange and beautiful eyes they are - move over the younger woman. Quick and efficient. Instinctive.

"Hello," Wanda greets them with ease, coming to stand beside Bucky where he's still sitting at the table. "Steve sent me. He believes I can help?"

Bucky only nods, a small part of him hoping the young, dark-haired Sokovian can find something in all this mess. Hopes she can extract some bit of information from Amel's mind which might aid in jogging his memory, in addition to clearing up the woman's identity, of course.

He nods toward her. "This is Amel. Amel, this is Wanda."

It's the first time he's spoken her name aloud, and it's easy. It feels right on his tongue. Sweet.

Her eyes lock on the younger woman's. "Hi there. You're the one who'll be checking me out?"

Wanda nods, her long dark hair shifting about her shoulders and full lips turning up in a gentle smile.

"That's right," she replies in her softly accented voice. She takes slow, measured steps around the table. Comes to a stop next to Amel's seat.

"He told you what I am? That I'm a shifter?"

"Yes. I do not quite understand it but, I suppose, I will find out."

Bucky marvels at the easy interaction between the two. Neither appear afraid or wary of the other and, he thinks, that must mean something. At least, he hopes it does.

Amel moves again, as much as she can with her arm locked to the table. Turns her chair until she's facing the younger woman more fully.

"Okay, what should I do?"

Wanda shrugs a thin shoulder. Gives a small shake of her head, then gracefully lowers herself to a crouch in front of Amel's chair, her black skirts shifting prettily around her.

"Nothing at all. I'm going to enter your mind. You may feel me there, and it may be a bit uncomfortable, but do not fight it. It is easier if you do not fight."

Amel sniffs. Cast a quick glance in Bucky's direction.

"All right. I can do that."

"Wonderful."

Wanda reaches out. Holds her thin hands at either side of Amel's face. Her power rises immediately, delicate strands of glowing, dark red swirling around her thin hands and between her gracefully dancing fingers.

Amel keeps her eyes on Wanda. She's at ease and Bucky's glad for that. All of this must be so difficult and stressful for her. He finds himself pushing up and out of his seat. Moves slowly around the table to stand close to the pair, feeling a bit of anxiety growing in his chest. What feels like care and concern amidst the curiosity. A sort of protectiveness that's unexpected.

He doesn't miss Wanda's soft, sharp intake of breath. She smiles broadly at Amel.

"My, she's quite lovely," she says, and Amel looks somewhat shy. Bashful.

Bucky likes the look on her. Has a fleeting image of brushing the back of his fingers over the smooth curve of her cheek.

His throat tightens at that thought and he wonders if this is a true memory or something his frazzled brain has created to compensate for what he can't understand.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

A couple beats of silence pass while Bucky watches. Waits. His hands curl into loose fists at his sides.

Finally, Wanda begins to speak again.

"She found you in the woods near her house. You were hurt."

Amel rolls her eyes, the corners of her lips lifting in a teasing smile. "I thought he was a hunter. Boy, was I wrong."

The women share a laugh, one of those quiet, knowing ones and Bucky feels a bit like an outsider. He steps closer. Has to stop himself from reaching out to touch Amel, inexplicably jealous of the obvious growing connection between them.

"She took you home. Cared for you," Wanda continues. Then, stops abruptly, the red tendrils of her power fading away as she pulls her hands back. She blinks at Amel. Rocks back on her heels as she glances hesitantly up at Bucky. "I do not feel it my place to tell you the rest. I'm sorry."

Amel lifts her golden eyes to him. Looks away. Whether out of embarrassment, or if she's hiding something, he can't tell, but there's a bit of sadness on Wanda's face. Pity, perhaps.

"What is it?"

She pushes to her feet. Brushes her palms down the front of her skirt. "It is private," she says simply. "A discussion for the two of you to share."

"It's dirty," Amel clarifies, then lets out a short, almost hysterical bark of laughter which catches them all off guard.

Wanda lifts a thin hand to her face to stifle her own giggle. It's a futile attempt. When her eyes move back to Amel, who's biting her lip and staring up at Wanda from the corner of her eye, they both start to laugh again. And he hates that Wanda knows more about her than he does. Doesn't think it's fair. Feels the heat of anger and impatience winding around his heart. Warming the skin above his shirt collar.

"Is she clean?" he demands. Then says in a softer tone, realizing Wanda doesn't deserve his irritation, "I mean, is she a threat?"

He thinks Amel snorts.

Wanda visibly works to rid herself of the smile still clinging to her lips, though her cherubic face is full of mischief. "Not according to anything I've seen. She's a friend."

Relief washes through him, thick and sharp.

"Good. That's… Steve'll be glad to hear it."

Wanda turns, says softly, sweetly, to Amel, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Amel. I hope to see you again."

The darker woman holds out her hand and Wanda takes it. Gives it a small shake.

"Same here, Wanda. Thank you for your help." Amel appears completely sincere. The light catches and glints prettily in her eyes.

Wanda turns to Bucky. Says as she moves toward the door, "I will speak with Steve."

He nods and, without another word, Wanda breezes through the door.

Once again, they are alone, and neither of them know how to deal with it.


	5. Chapter 5

When the pretty dark-haired girl with the magic red finger leaves – Amel's brain is still humming from the energy she'd pushed through it – she finds it hard to look at the Soldier. Wanda's digging did a lot more than substantiate her identity; it had brought everything else into sharp, startling clarity.

She feeling nostalgic. Sad. Alone. All jumbled up and murky inside.

At least her wolf has settled. All this newness, this anxiety, has her uncomfortable and unnerved. Desperate to shift. She's out of her element.

She sighs now. Brings her hand up to rub at the knot of tension beginning to form between her shoulder blades. Then startles when the magnetic cuff releases her with a low hiss, the two halves falling away and clinking hollowly against the table.

She looks up at Bucky, who merely nods at her.

"We can go," he says. Waits while she pushes to her feet. He gives her a moment to stretch, and she lifts her arms high above her head as she rumbles out a groan of discomfort. She sees his eyes move over her lower half, taking in the sight of the thin strip of bare skin peeking out from beneath the hem of her t-shirt.

There's a small measure of satisfaction in that.

He leads her out of the room. Down a short series of halls which are, oddly, empty. There are no windows, just the harsh glare of artificial lights above their heads. She assumes they're in some sort of basement.

She knows she should be paying attention to her surroundings, however, her eyes are drawn to the cut of his waist in the dark jeans riding wonderfully low on his leans hips. And, she's not sure, but his shoulders seem just a bit broader in his dark gray long-sleeve.

They finally come to a stop at an elevator. Amel pretends to watch the scrolling green numbers. Admits to herself she's not paying attention. Nor is she interested. She wants to touch him. Has a sudden, overwhelming craving for it, and her wolf is in full agreement. Her beast chuffs impatiently inside her head, called by his scent. His nearness after so long of being deprived of it.

When the doors slide open, he ushers her inside, then follows closely behind. She leans against the back wall. Bows her head to hide a yawn. And nearly jumps out of her skin when a sweet, female voice with an endearing Irish accent fills the wide cab.

" _Good evening, Sergeant Barnes. May I inquire about your guest?"_

"Holy fuck, "she yells, slamming into the back wall as her heart makes a serious attempt at leaping out of her chest.

Bucky moves quickly, hooking his flesh and blood arm around her waist and pulling her in against his side. His hand goes to her hip where his thumb begins to make small, soothing circles over the bone.

"Good evening, F.R.I.D.A.Y.," he says smoothly, and Amel, more confused than frightened now, blinks up at him in confusion.

He can't possibly be talking _to_ the elevator, can he? That would be crazy, right?

"This is Amel. She's going to be my guest. Please provide her with the necessary clearances to my living quarters."

" _As you wish, Sergeant Barnes. Welcome, Miss Amel."_

She tries to speak, but only manages a very unbecoming croak. Then the cab is moving and Amel is still trying to catch her breath.

There's a few seconds of silence before Bucky's voice drifts down to her, deep and slightly amused.

"You can change your form to that of a wolf. Three hours ago, you had seven trained agents bearing down on you with loaded weapons… and you're frightened of a talking elevator."

"Dear God," she sighs and, without thinking, curls into his side. He's warm and real and, she's probably being a bit too forward because the man has no idea who she is or the history they share, had no idea she existed until a few hours ago, but she can't convince herself to let go just yet.

It feels so damned good when his arms tighten around her waist. When he brings the metal one up and bands it across her back, she turns her face into his chest. Breathes deeply of his scent. Holds it in her lungs before releasing it on a quavering exhalation.

"What a mess," she says quietly, more to herself than to him, emotion rising and forming a tight ball in her stomach. Her fingers curl loosely into the soft fabric of his shirt.

"It's… I'm…"

She feels him sigh, pulling in the air and rustling a few strands of hair on the crown of her head as he slowly releases it through his nose. He tucks her head beneath his chin and she's never felt more at home.

"We'll figure it out," he finally murmurs, and she gets the feeling he's trying to convince himself more than he's trying to convince her.

The sun had set while Amel was in holding. She's standing now before the bank of windows that makes up an entire wall of Bucky's living room, watching the lights winking out in the buildings below.

She has no idea what floor they're on, how far up his apartment is in this monstrosity of a building known as Avengers Tower. She just knows that when she looks up, she can't see any stars in the velvety night sky, much less the moon. Realizes with a sinking feeling how very far away from home she actually is.

"Have you had enough to eat?"

She turns her head to find Bucky standing in the open doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, a faint look of concern on his handsome face. His hair is tied back in a low ponytail, which accentuates the scruffy line of his jaw.

"I'm fine," she says. "Thank you."

She hadn't been hungry at all - the stress of the day and her own anxiety combined with that of her wolf's having stolen whatever appetite she might have had - but he'd been adamant about her getting something on her stomach, so she'd conceded to letting him make her a sandwich. Which she only picked at.

He nods now, taking a few slow steps into the room. Looks as if he wants to say something.

She turns around to give him her full attention.

"I wanted to ask… What did you call me? Back then?"

She stares at him, confused for a moment.

"What do you mean?"

His blues search her face, narrowing slightly as he gazes at her. "When Steve called me 'Bucky'… It just seemed like you'd never heard the name before. What did you call me, then?"

It's true. She'd read the name countless times in all the information she'd managed to find in her month of searching. However, 'Bucky' was not the person she knew, and it had been strange to hear another person call him by that name.

"Soldier," she replies. Notices the way his jaw flexes and the almost angry light that flares in his eyes. "At least, that's what you told me to call you."

He looks away. Stares beyond her into the dark night sky.

Silence settles heavily around them. Grows large. Echoes. He speaks again when it becomes more than a little uncomfortable.

"I'm not him," he says, carefully. Looks at her, perhaps, to see if she understands. "I'm not _him_. Not anymore."

She nods. Of course, she understands.

"What happened?" She licks her lips. Takes a few uncertain steps in his direction. "What happened after they took you? Why… Why don't you remember me?" Her voice sounds small and plaintive to her own ears and she hates it.

He gets that faraway look again, eyes drifting, jaw clenching and, no matter what he says, these are definitely pieces of the Soldier coming through. Though she doesn't dare say it out loud. The Soldier is someone he doesn't know. Someone he wants to make sure she understands he isn't. A part of her can understand why. Though it doesn't make any this easier.

"They wiped it all," he says. "Erased everything. You. The time I spent with you."

He scrapes the knuckles of his flesh and blood hand over his cheek.

"They didn't before but, I guess, after my little excursion, I became a liability. Probably felt they'd put too much time and effort into… making me what I was, The Soldier, to simply kill me." He laughs and the sound is bitter. Resentful. "I was very good at what I did."

 _My little excursion..._

A spark of anger flits through her at those words. It makes everything they'd shared sound so small. Inconsequential. As if that time had been nothing more than a vacation for him. A distraction. However, she doesn't say any of this. Not right now. Probably never will, all things considered.

He goes on. "My memory is full of holes. When…" He stops. Appears to be searching for the right words. "I knew Steve from before. Before I became… _him_ … I've been able to recall some things from that time." He huffs out a breath. Looks at her expectantly. "Not everything. Some. Every day a little more."

She hears what he isn't saying. That whatever happened to him, whatever Hydra did to him, he's managed to get some of himself back. That, just maybe, there's a chance he _could_ remember.

But, maybe, she's reading too much into it.

Before either of them can say anything more, a voice, the same voice from the elevator, fills the room. Amel only jumps a little this time.

" _Beg your pardon, Sgt. Barnes. Mr. Stark, Ms. Maximoff, and Captain Rogers are requestin' access to your quarters. Shall I let them in?"_

He probably doesn't mean for her to hear it, but he curses under his breath.

"One moment, _F.R.I.D.A.Y_."

" _Certainly, Sgt. Barnes."_

"Are you up for company?"

She blinks at him. She's tired and more than a little anxious and irritated, but this isn't her place and she doesn't feel right making requests or demands. She shrugs. "Um, I suppose so."

He turns to go, then turns back. "If at any point you feel uncomfortable, let me know, ok?"

She's been uncomfortable.

"Ok."

Again, it seems there's more he wants to say, however, he only stares at her a long moment before heading out of the room, calling out for _F.R.I.D.A.Y_ to grant access to his guests.

She turns back to the windows. Looks to the night sky for stars she can't see though she knows are there. Decides she'll get a good night's sleep before heading out in the morning. No use sticking around on the basis of a few memories that, obviously, only she and her wolf can recall. Or, a sliver of hope that maybe, someday, he'll remember her and what they shared.

She realizes she hadn't really planned much further than simply seeing him. Entering the Stark building had been a whim - a thoughtless, careless whim for sure. She should have waited. Formed a better plan. She'd risked her own safety and, for what?

Inside her head, her wolf lets out a high, mournful whine. Pushes solidly against the barrier of her flesh and bones. Amel runs her palms down her arms in an attempt to sooth her.

The Soldier is alive, even if he's no longer hers.

That should be enough.

She wishes she could tell that to the ache growing inside her chest.


	6. Chapter 6

"She seems nice."

Steve's voice comes from a distance, though he and Bucky are standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the wide bank of windows overlooking the city.

He hasn't been paying attention to his pal; all of his focus is on Amel, who's sitting with Tony and Wanda in the little living area. They're huddled close together, Tony leading their discussion with a multitude of questions regarding Amel's shifter abilities.

He only glances at Steve now. Makes some small, noncommittal sound before his focus is back on the woman.

Though only a few feet of distance separates them, it might as well be miles. He's feeling quite protective of Amel, and has been watching her closely for any signs of offense or discomfort. Going by the soft smile on her pretty face, she's feeling none of that. And it's a big difference from the frown she'd been sporting just before Stark, Wanda and Steve arrived.

He's been going over their earlier conversation in his head. Remembering the way her golden eyes had filled with haunting sadness when he'd told her how Hydra had wiped her from his memory. The pain in them was palpable. Raw and far too real to be an act. And he hurts for her.

Steve's elbow in his side finally gets his full attention.

"What are you thinking, Buck?" he asks, pale blue eyes narrowed.

Bucky shrugs. "Nothing," he says, then sucks in a slow breath. "Everything. Too much."

Steve nods toward the little group, his gaze on Amel. "What do you make of all this? Do you believe it? That she is who she says she is?"

"Yeah. Wanda says she's clean. I believe her. "

Steve is quiet a long moment, though Bucky can see the wheels turning in his head. The blonde shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

Laughter rises from the little group and while Amel's is not nearly as loud as Stark's, his ears zero in on the somewhat husky rasp of sound. It, like everything else about the woman, is vaguely familiar. It fills him with an inexplicable warmth. Brings a soft smile to his own face.

"I thought maybe she was a plant," Steve says. "But if her own memories had been altered in any way, Wanda would have picked up on it."

In truth, the thought hadn't crossed his mind, but he wouldn't have put it past Hydra. They would have done anything to keep him in line. To keep their claws in him.

In spite of the holes in his memory, the blank spots where he assumes Amel should be, he's glad to have had something that was his and, mostly, untouched by Hydra. Which makes him even more determined to find some way to remember her. He just doesn't know where to begin.

"So, I guess the question is," Steve hedges, casting a sidelong glance Bucky's way, "what are you gonna do?"

"She was in love with The Soldier," he says suddenly, the words coming out before he's even aware of having thought them. "I don't understand how that's possible."

Steve shrugs. "Maybe she saw something in him. Maybe he was… different with her." Even he doesn't sound convinced.

Bucky shakes his head. "The Soldier was an animal. He wasn't capable of feeling… anything. Much less loving someone."

"And, yet, she's saying something different. Whatever happened between her and The Soldier, it was important enough for her to come looking for him."

Hearing the words spoken aloud doesn't make it seem any less crazy. He looks at Amel. Thinks of The Soldier and tries to imagine what she could have seen in that monster.

"Is she staying?"

Bucky's head whips toward Steve so fast, he feels the sharp tug of muscles in his neck.

"Of course," he replies, almost incredulously.

Steve arches a brow at him. "You sure about that? I mean, she came here expecting The Soldier. You're not him, Bucky."

Bucky sighs. Turns his attention back to Amel. "I know."

"But, you don't want her to go." It's a statement because, even after all that's happened, Steve knows him. Better than he knows himself.

"I don't," he says quietly. "There's just… something about her. I can't explain it. I don't know her. She has no reason to stay, but it makes me sick to think of her leaving. Which is crazy, right?"

Steve eyes him. "You really wanna talk to me about crazy?"

The knowing look they share is cut short when Stark launches himself out of the armchair he's been sitting in and comes marching over to where Steve and Bucky are standing, a big smile plastered across his face.

"She's gonna do it. She's gonna show us!"

Bucky thinks Stark looks like a kid on Christmas, all wide, glinting eyes and manic joy. He doesn't know what the shorter man is talking about, but he's almost one hundred percent certain he's not going to like it.

"Show us what," Steve asks.

"She's gonna shift."

Bucky looks to Amel. She's pushing to her feet now. Toeing out of her worn boots and nudging them aside. She's got a strange look on her face. There's a bit of tension in her shoulders and he notices the fine tremor that's taken over her hands as she reaches for the hem of her T-shirt.

He steps forward. Starts to say her name, but she's tugging her shirt over her head and everything seems to stop. He blinks, jaw dropping the same instant her T-shirt hits the floor.

She reaches behind her. Gets a hold of the clasp of her bra and, soon, the garment is joining the shirt at her feet. His mind registers what she's doing, but his voice is gone, snatched away by the sight of Amel's soft brown skin in the low light, the supple curve of her breasts and their dark chocolate nipples.

Behind him, Steve is making a low choking sound. Tony coughs discreetly into a closed fist.

"Amel," Bucky says, voice much louder and a little more gruff than he'd intended.

She looks up at him, her thin brows drawn in confusion and what appears to be annoyance.

"What?"

He takes a few steps toward her, anger twining with lust inside his stomach. He doesn't want the others to see her like this - bare and exposed.

"What are you doing?"

She shrugs. Says simply, "Tony wants to see me shift. I like these jeans. I don't want to ruin 'em."

Her eyes move over their little group and he swears he sees a small smile tugging at the corners of her full lips.

"What's the big deal? You guys never seen a naked lady before?"

Wanda giggles from her place on the couch.

Tony steps forward. Pats Bucky lightly on the shoulder. Says with mock authority, "No worries, Frosty. It's all in the name of science."

He doesn't speak. His jaw hurts where he's grinding his teeth. He wants them all gone. Wants to wrap Amel up in his arms and feel that beautiful skin pressed against his.

"To science!" Amel chirps, as if he's not on the verge of exploding in a fit of irrational rage and unbridled lust.

She pops the button of her jeans, begins to shimmy out of the them, and he bites back on the groan rising in chest, because she's fucking beautiful. All lean limbs and sinfully lush curves.

She takes a couple steps to the side, lowers her head and exhales a long, slow breath.

As they all watch, Amel begins to change. Something shifts beneath her skin, causes the flesh to ripple like a wave, and then her entire form starts to pull in on itself.

It's all very strange and startlingly, oddly beautiful - dark brown fur sprouting where dark brown skin had once been, moving in a rippling effect over her changing body. There's a series of soft pops as what he assumes are her bones and joints rearranging themselves to accommodate this new form. Her features are no longer her own. There's a muzzle now, bright strands of gray standing out against the brown. And thick, furry twitching ears tipped in the same color.

In a matter of seconds, what feels like only a few heartbeats really, Amel is no longer Amel. In her place is a wolf. Small, though larger than an average-sized dog, and lean with a thick, slowly swaying tail swinging behind her.

As he stares, the wolf stretches. Shakes its entire body. Opens its mouth in a wide yawn that's full of sharp, dangerous-looking teeth. Then, she sits. Stares up at them with solid gold, eerily familiar eyes.

For a long moment, no one moves. No one speaks. Amel, the wolf, makes a low chuffing noise, then pads softly over to where Wanda is still sitting, staring in wonder at the creature before her. She looks at the dark-haired girl, then shifts forward to prod at the hands folded in her lap with the tip of her nose.

Wanda lets out a startled laugh, then leans in to stroke her hands over Amel's head. Her ears. When her nails comb through the fur covering her rib cage, Amel yips and leans her full weight against Wanda's knees, clearly enjoying the attention.

Stark is the first to break the surrounding silence.

"That's fucking incredible."

Bucky can only stare. Amel's scent is stronger now. Snow in the forest at night. He breathes deep. Pulls the scent into his lungs, holds it on the tip of his tongue, and something moves through him, something warm and heavy that throbs in the center of his chest. It manifests in a dull ache at his temples.

Yes, there's something there, a vague image flitting at the edges of his vision, but the more he tries to focus on it, the more distant and hazy it becomes.

He turns away. Tries to breathe evenly through the sudden wave of emotion crashing through him. There's need and longing. Security. Safety. All twisting and turning and fumbling about inside him. And at the center of it all is Amel - her scent and her haunting gold eyes.

Steve's hand on his shoulder brings him sharply back to the present. He looks at his friend. Shakes his head at the concern floating in his eyes.

There's something there, and he wants so badly to know what it is. To see it as clearly as Amel does.


	7. Chapter 7

When Steve, Wanda and Tony leave, Amel reluctantly shifts back and re-dresses. And promptly collapses on the couch.

She's tired. Worn out, to be exact. She feels languid and lazy. Sore in a way that only comes after a shift - all warm skin and wonderfully aching muscles. Hungry now, though she won't say anything to Bucky.

The apartment is quiet again, however it's not the type of quiet to which she's accustomed. This is an artificial quiet. No night sounds. No crackling fire. No wind whispering through trees. Just… quiet. She doesn't understand how anyone can deal with this type of silence. Thinks for what's probably the fifth time in as many hours that she has no place here.

"You're tired."

Somehow, amidst all the silence, Bucky has managed to sneak up on her. She looks up to find him standing beside the couch, his hands shoved into his pockets once more.

She realizes she hasn't seen much of his metal arm since her arrival. Hadn't noticed until now that he tries to keep it out of sight, turning his body just so, or keeping his hands in his pockets. She doesn't like that. Decides against saying anything about it.

She offers him a soft smile instead. Stifles a yawn with the back of her wrist.

"Yeah. Long day."

Bucky nods. Doesn't smile back. He simply stands staring at her a long moment before coming around and taking the seat to her left. He's neither close, nor extremely far away. He's just close enough that if she were to stretch out her arm she could touch his shoulder with the tips of her fingers.

"Stark wants to study you," he says.

Tony had said as much during their brief discussion, and Amel had firmly, though politely, declined.

Now she laughs and nestles further into the couch, lifting her legs and planting her bare heels on the edge of the cushions.

"Well, I have no intention of becoming anyone's guinea pig. Guinea wolf? I think I just made that up."

This time Bucky does smile. It's quick. Gone before it's truly formed, and the gesture is so much like her Soldier that it sends a sharp stab of longing through her heart. It twists in the pit of her stomach.

"Besides," she goes on, "It'll be very hard to study me when I'm not here."

She hopes she doesn't sound as bitter, as sad, as she feels. Bucky had made it perfectly clear that he isn't the man she remembers. And, if she's reading their earlier conversation correctly, he never wanted to be, nor does he have any intention of being him again.

He hates that man. Wants to put as much distance between himself and The Soldier as possible.

She doesn't blame him. According to the information she'd been able to find, The Winter Soldier had been merciless and deadly. Ruthless. His name had been connected to numerous assassinations. Bombings. Countless deaths. There's plenty of blood on The Winter Soldier's hands.

Maybe that's the real reason why she'd finally decided to seek him out. The man she'd known wasn't the man she'd read about. And he definitely wasn't the man currently sitting beside her.

What she finds even more interesting about all this is their obvious differing opinions about him.

Bucky is the first to break the long silence.

"Tell me something about then. About… us."

She stares at his profile, the dark dusting of beard covering the strong line of his jaw. The dark hair curling out from its elastic band and brushing over the nape of his neck.

For a fleeting moment she imagines crawling into his lap. Cuddling into his warmth, held close against the broad expanse of his chest. Feeling those strong arms looped around her, much like he'd held her in the elevator earlier. She can smell him on her skin still. Her shirt.

Three years ago, she wouldn't have stopped herself from doing exactly as she was imagining. Back then, he would have welcomed it. Might even have been the first to pull her in.

"You didn't talk to me for the first four days," she finally says. "I called you 'Big Fella'."

"Big Fella?" Bucky pulls a face and Amel can't help laughing.

"I didn't know what else to call you and I had to call you something, didn't I?"

He ducks his head. Tries to hide his amused smile.

She goes on without thinking, her eyes trained on the city skyline just beyond the windows.

"You liked peanut butter. You went through whole jars at a time."

She smiles at the memory. Remembers the way he would shrug when she held out _another_ empty jar to him, as if to say 'So what?'.

"There was a lavender field about a mile away from the cabin. In the spring, you'd get up early and bring back fresh blooms. You'd put them in mason jars and leave them on the table for me to find when I woke up."

It's bittersweet. She's always loved the smell of lavender, but over the years the scent had brought with it other, sharper memories. Filled her with an aching loneliness that never seemed too far away.

Bucky makes a low, disbelieving sound, shifting a bit in his seat.

When he speaks again, his voice is careful. Tentative. As if he's afraid of her answer.

"Did I ever hurt you?"

This is probably what's most important for him to know. What has been nagging at him since the moment he laid eyes on her.

Amel smiles sadly. Reaches out and drags her knuckles down his forearm, as much a comfort to him as to herself. "Never. I know you don't believe it." She curls her thin fingers into his shirt sleeve. Tugs gently to get his full attention. "But, you never laid a hand on me."

She can tell by the look on his face that he doesn't completely believe her.

"Do you think I would have come if that were the case?"

He bites his lip and, despite the seriousness of the situation, the weight of their discussion, she wants very badly to kiss him. Wants to drag her tongue across his plump lower lip. Wants to find out if he tastes the same - like metal and heat.

"You don't have to leave," he says. "I want you to stay."

She pulls her hand back. Clasps her fingers together and tucks them in against her stomach.

"Why? You don't even know me, Bucky. Not anymore."

"But, I want to. Steve said something earlier. That… whatever we shared was important enough for you to come looking for me. Is that true?"

He looks cautiously hopeful now, eyes bright and shimmering in the dim wash of light filtering in from outside.

"It was," Amel concedes, emotion making the words thick.

He reaches out. Ghosts the tip of a blunt finger across her cheekbone, and she instinctively turns into his touch.

"Will you help me remember what _it_ was?"


	8. Chapter 8

She agrees to stay. She's reluctant, of course, and he can understand it. She doesn't say how long, but Bucky gets the distinct feeling he's on borrowed time.

He wants to continue talking to her, to hear her voice and more about their time together, but she yawns four times in as many minutes, and he knows he should let her get some rest.

He sets her up in the spare bedroom. Promises to retrieve her bag from holding first thing in the morning.

They share a whispered goodnight amid the shadows of the darkened hallway, and Bucky walks away, wishing he had the nerve, or courage, to ask her to stay in his room with him. He's very uncomfortable not having her near him. What's more unnerving is the _depth_ of this feeling, considering he knows next to nothing about the woman.

However, there's a connection there, potent and visceral, which he can't rightly explain. It's strange and he can't recall ever feeling anything so strongly, and he wants more of this feeling. More of Amel. Is hungry to know what type of woman could love The Winter Soldier. What type of woman could manage to worm her way into and set up shop in the heart of a being created for absolute destruction. There's no doubt in his mind that that's what she's done. Why else would he have such feelings about her, so raw and needful and wanting?

He climbs into bed with these thoughts on his mind, certain sleep can't possibly find him. Yet, he drifts, and somewhere inside that hazy space between dream and reality, she appears.

Except it's not actually her. No. It's the ideaof her. The _thought_ of her. An impression, really, all wrapped up in the faint, teasing scent of lavender, at a distance from him and carved of light and shadow.

And from where he drifts, inside the swirling, wavering half-light of the dream, he thinks she smiles. Catches a fleeting glint of gold where her eyes should be. Husky laughter very close to his ear. The ghostly press of phantom lips against the roughness of his cheek. Soft. Sweet. Warm.

He wakes with a start, heart pounding and filled with a staticky sort of anxiety. He lays staring at the ceiling. Tries to hold on to the remnants of the dream, which is already fading away.

What remains, however, is a feeling. Hot and heavy in his gut. An odd mix of joy and fear. Happiness and apprehension. He doesn't know if what he's dreamed is real, a memory shaken loose from the dark recesses of his mind, or if it's something he's conjured out of need and the lilting cadence of Amel's voice. Can't imagine that The Soldier could, or would, understand joy or happiness, or love for that matter.

It's seems impossible. Improbable. Highly unlikely.

His memories of The Soldier, many of which are set against a backdrop of smoke and fire, drenched in blood and chaos, are of a ruthless man, a force that, once given direction, was almost unstoppable.

The Soldier was a machine. He knew nothing outside of orders and commands. Nothing outside of the bone-deep cold of the cryo-chamber. He had been Death itself, given flesh and a metal arm.

What could he have known of love? What could he have done to deserve it?

Impossible.

Improbable.

Highly unlikely.

Movement at the edge of his vision has him bolting upright, instincts on high-alert, his body immediately tense and ready. But, then, he realizes it's only Amel and he's tense for an entirely different reason.

She's standing in the shadows of the open doorway, clad in little more than the T-shirt she was wearing earlier and simple red cotton panties. Smooth, bare brown legs below. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, her full lips pinched in an endearing pout. She lifts a hand and presses the heel of it into her temple.

He doesn't know how one person can look utterly exhausted, adorable and ridiculously sexy all at the same time.

She yawns. Starts to shuffle forward and, before he's fully aware of what's happening, she's climbing up and onto the foot of the bed.

"It's too damn quiet here," she grouses, voice slurred and rough with sleep. "I don't know how you stand it."

Then she's collapsing on her side, long legs slightly bent and almost brushing his hip, her arms folded beneath her cheek. She inhales slow and deep through her nose. Releases the air just as slowly. Hums contentedly as she drifts off.

He simply stares at her, as equally confused by her actions as he is turned on by the sight of her bare skin.

But he won't dare complain, because whatever anxiety and worry he'd been feeling upon waking from the dream has been banished by her presence. By the forest and earth smell of her.

Gradually, his body begins to relax, and the ache caused by her absence trickles away.

She shifts again. Reaches out a thin hand and curls it against his side, and her touch, the gentle pressure of her fingertips against his skin, sends a wave of warmth through him. Brings a soft, pleased smile to his lips.

Inside the peace and stillness of his bedroom, Bucky decides that, at least for tonight, with this soft, beautiful woman curled up at his side, he can let go and ignore the impossibility, the improbability, of this entire situation. He can believe in redemption; he can believe that he deserves to loved.

Tomorrow will be the time for questions. Tomorrow will be the time for answers, whether he likes them or not.

He isn't certain what will happen, if he'll ever remember Amel and what they shared, isn't sure if he wants to if it means stepping back into the skin of The Winter Soldier.

Tonight, though, he has Amel. And it's enough.


	9. Chapter 9

Amel is drifting...

In her dreams, she's at the cabin again. She's warm and there's a big, equally warm body next to her. She can hear its measured breaths. The steady beat of its heart. And when she shifts, her knee brushes against a strong, thickly muscled thigh.

In the dream space of the cabin, there's no before. No after. Only now. There's sunlight on the bare skin of her arm and the crisp scent of burning firewood perfuming the air.

She's happy.

She moves closer to her bedmate. Absently throws an arm over the familiar figure… then is startled awake by the sharp inhale that follows when her fingers close over cool metal.

For a long moment, she doesn't move. She simply breathes, eyes shut tightly as the dream melts away and the events of the previous day and night come rushing back to her.

The last of such memories are of parting ways with Bucky in the dim hallway. She remembers fading in and out of a fitful sleep, unable to find a comfortable position in the strange, new bed. There was seemingly endless tossing and turning because she could smell him over the short distance separating them, and it was _so_ _fucking_ _quiet_. Abnormally, irritatingly quiet.

And she just couldn't take it anymore. Found herself moving toward _him_ and the heavy, hypnotic sound of his heartbeat, spurred forward by her own want and the desire of her wolf to be close to him again.

She vaguely recalls shuffling into his room, the scent of him stronger here. She remembers crawling into his bed and collapsing next to him. The solid feel of his body, and the smoothness of skin beneath her fingertips. Joy twisting in her heart and her wolf letting out a pleased huff because there's warmth and comfort here and the silence isn't so bad anymore.

But, now, with her arm looped across his bare chest and her fingertips resting against his cybernetic arm and his heart beating in a frenzied rhythm in her ears, she thinks she's overstepped her boundaries. Allowed exhaustion and need to override what should have been a rational thought. This man doesn't know her and, while it's common for wolves to seek comfort and peace in nearness and touch, he is no wolf and she is a stranger to him.

She pulls back slowly. Opens her eyes to look up into his face to gauge his mood, and is startled by what she sees.

In the brightening morning light, his eyes are more gray than blue. Careful. Watchful. He is silent. Her arm moves with the slow rise and fall of his even breaths.

"I-" she starts, but loses whatever words she'd been on the verge of saying when his dusky brow furrows and his gaze flicks down to her lips. His own are set in a pensive line.

She sees the muscle of his jaw tick and jump. Then he's looking at her again, his storm-cloud gaze moving slowly over her face as if he's seeing her for the first time, before coming back to hers.

There's realization there. A soft flicker of knowing right before the corner of his lips tick with the ghost of a smile, so quick she would have missed it if she hadn't been paying attention.

She sees him there, sees her Soldier in the heavy set of his brow, the controlled neutrality of his eyes, the tension of muscle always in preparation for whatever will come next. Fighting or fleeing.

And just like that fleeting smile, he's gone as quickly as he came, and Bucky's features lose a bit of the hard edge. His brow is furrowed in confusion rather than concentration now.

"Amel," he questions, voice low and hoarse. He pulls away from her sharply. Yanks his arm out of her loose grasp. "What-"

She doesn't know if he's aware of what just happened, can hardly understand it herself much less form words around the ball of emotion which has settled in the pit of her stomach. So, she smiles gently. Disengages from his warmth to give him some space.

"Sorry," she says. "I guess I was sleepwalking."

"No." He shakes his head, his eyes their solid blue again, if a little hazy and unsure. "No, it's not that. I-"

He stops. Pushes himself up into a sitting position.

She can feel tears gathering. Can feel the familiar hollow ache beginning to bloom inside her. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Uses the backs of her wrists to rub away the wetness threatening to spill over onto her cheeks.

She'd had him again. Just for a moment, she had held her Soldier in her arms.

"I'm sorry, Bucky. I wasn't thinking," she says, though she's apologizing for more than simply invading his personal space.

She pushes up from the bed. Has only taken a few unsteady steps toward the bedroom door before his voice stops her.

"Amel, no. Just wait a second."

She stops. Reluctantly turns back toward him. Hopes he can't see the pain on her face.

He looks confused, unsteady, perched on the edge of the bed with his fists braced next to his lean hips.

"I felt...something. _Him_..." His eyes flick to the windows then back to her. "I don't… I can't fucking remember, Amel." He rakes his hands roughly through his hair, as if he means to tear the knowledge from his brain.

She hears the frustration in his voice, the desperate echo of growing terror and, before she knows it, she's standing in front of him, soothing fingers replacing his and his cheek pressed against her stomach. His whole body is practically vibrating.

"It's ok," she murmurs. "It's ok."

And she hates herself for wanting the Soldier so badly. Is beginning to understand now, at least just a little, what that could mean for Bucky.

He doesn't say much after the weirdness that happened in his bedroom. He doesn't necessarily pull away from her, but Amel can tell his thoughts are not anywhere near the here and now.

They shower in their respective rooms. Her bag was left by the front door sometime during the early morning hours and she's glad to have something clean to change into.

Now she's sitting at the little dinette, watching him pile food onto serving plates and carry them over to the table. She'd offered to help, but he'd quietly declined any assistance.

"Can I ask you something?" she says when they're finally seated across from each other.

He glances up. Finishes filling her glass with orange juice from a dark blue ceramic pitcher. This all feels so very domestic. Normal in light of what happened earlier.

"Of course."

Amel trails a thin index finger over the rim of her coffee cup. Then dips it into the scalding liquid before bringing it to her lips.

"Wanda pulled the memories from my head. Wouldn't it make sense to do the same for you?"

He clears his throat. Picks up his fork. Drags it through a mountain of scrambled eggs before answering. His broad shoulders are tense beneath the burgundy sweater he's wearing. She thinks, absently, that the color looks really good on him.

"No."

Amel waits for him to say more, to explain, but he doesn't. Instead, he begins to eat. Keeps his eyes focused resolutely on his plate.

"Um… Why not? This whole thing could be figured out in a matter of seconds, right? She could probably help you remember."

She doesn't miss the way his hand tightens around his fork. Caches the muted whir and click of the gears in his cybernetic arm as he clenches his fist beneath the table. Still hiding it.

"There's a lot going on in there, Amel. Too much. Sometimes too much for me."

There's a hint of frustration underscoring his voice, and something else, something heavier and sharper that worms its way into her heart.

It takes only a moment for Amel to put the pieces together. She remembers the Soldier telling her about nightmares. Memories of the things he'd done. The people he'd killed.

"You afraid of what else she might see?"

He swallows deeply. Inhales before bringing his gaze back up to hers. He looks so vulnerable just then. Tortured. His eyes are begging her to understand.

"Amel, I've done a lot more wrong than I've done right over the years. Most of which even _I'm_ having trouble living with. No one else deserves to see any of it."

She gets it. Knows what the internet, the news articles say about him. Who he was. Who he used to be. Who many _still_ believe him to be. In the short amount of time she's spent with him, she's got a pretty good feeling about who he wants to be. The man he's _trying_ to be these days.

Which is why she chooses to tell him something she's never even told the Soldier.

"My father was Alpha of our pack. I became his Beta after our mother died. My brothers were too young and the only female within the pack hadn't come of age.

"About five years before you came along, a rogue pack entered our territory. Their Alpha challenged my father's seat. Dad was up in age, but still fully capable of leading. Of protecting us. The other pack was disorganized. Completely at the will of their beasts. Even on his worst day, the other Alpha was no match for my father, and he was killed. Afterward, we slaughtered those who remained."

She looks at Bucky straight on. Holds his gaze as she says, "It was my idea. I led the attack. We tracked and killed seven men and women. I don't regret a second of it."

She picks up her orange juice. Allows her words to hang between them for a moment. Waits for Bucky's reaction to her blatant lack of remorse over something most would consider cruel and heartless.

"Amel, that's different," he finally says, shaking his head, a few strands of dark hair swaying against his cheeks.

She nods. "Yeah. I _chose_ to kill. It's in my blood. It's a part of who and what I am and, given the choice, I will always choose the safety of my pack first.

" _You_ didn't choose. _You_ were taken and trained to be a killer. The Winter Soldier did those things, but that wasn't all of him. I should know. I had eight months with him and, during that time, he wasn't anywhere close to the monster everybody thinks he was."

Amel exchanges her juice for coffee. Finishes half the cup and a good portion of her breakfast before Bucky speaks again.

"You eat with your hands."

She looks at him. Glances down at her butter smeared fingers. He can't be serious.

"That's it? That's really all you can say after what I've just told you?"

Bucky shrugs. Picks up his fork and digs into his own food. There's a smile on his lips now, and Amel feels the dark clouds beginning to lift from around them.

"It's distracting," he says. "Cute, and distracting."

Amels points an accusing finger at him. Tries to bite back her own smile, the heaviness of the moment gone due, in large part, to his sudden and surprisingly teasing manner.

"I'm not _cute_ , sir. I am a vicious beast."

He nods. "Of course you are."


	10. Chapter 10

For someone who's spent almost ten years in near complete solitude, Amel is surprisingly charming and personable.

This becomes very clear when Tony, having given up on trying to convince her to become his next experiment, though Bucky is certain he's only biding his time, decides to gather the rest of the team for an impromptu dinner at his penthouse.

Four days have passed since Amel's sudden arrival, during which time the others had been gone on respective missions. They're home now, all except Natasha, and appear to be completely smitten with the little she-wolf, much to Bucky's disliking.

Toward the end of the evening they practically corner him. And there's no hesitation or reluctance in their curiosity regarding Amel.

"Can she fight? She looks like she can fight. That's hot."

This from Clint whose pale blue eyes are moving with open interest over the set of bare brown legs stretched over the arm of Stark's armchair, bare feet with their blood-red nails, Wanda's idea apparently, swinging. He takes a long pull from the bottle of beer in his hand. Spares Bucky a brief, inquisitive glance before returning his attention to Amel.

Bucky merely grunts in response.

A heavy hand at his back has him tensing before Sam steps into his line of vision, a sly grin taking up most of his dark face.

"Well, who'da thought Bucky'd have a thing for chocolate, huh?" he says on a laugh.

They're only teasing him. Giving him a hard time. No different than any other time they're all gathered in the same room. He knows this, but he can't seem to get his head to come to terms with it.

There's a throbbing in his temples and a heavy knot in the pit of his stomach, both of which have been there since he and Amel arrived and he watched Tony pull Amel into a much too friendly hug. What's more, he called her 'Furball' and she'd laughed, as if they'd known each other forever.

He's being crazy. Overreacting. He knows.

Still...

Tony peers at him from the corner of his eye. Says absently, "Maybe she'll shift for us again."

A blast of anger shoots through him and, suddenly, all eyes are on him when the glass he's been holding shatters in his hand. He blinks as what remains of the dark liquid inside drips over his flesh fingers and splatters onto the carpet.

"Aw, come on, Frosty," Tony whines, waving a hand in his direction. "I just had that cleaned!"

He looks up. Locks eyes with a concerned-looking Amel, and immediately turns and storms off to the kitchen.

He isn't surprised when Steve comes after him. Finds him standing over the sink picking slivers of glass out of the cuts that are already beginning to heal on their own.

"You ok, Buck?" he asks, sidling up to him.

Bucky spares him a glance, his hand at his mouth now, teeth working at a particularly stubborn shard which has embedded itself in the thickest part of his palm.

"You seem a little tense, pal."

Silence still. There's blood on his tongue. The taste sends a flicker of remembrance through him, vague and distant as usual and, as it's been since the morning he woke with Amel curled over him, the feeling, the memory, is gone in a flash, having never fully formed. Leaves him empty and frustrated.

"What's goin' on with you, Buck?"

He's finally managed to get the glass out of his palm. He spits it into the sink. Runs warm water over the cut. Watches a thin ribbon of blood circle and swirl down the drain.

"Everything's fine, Steve," he grunts.

Steve, of course, is not convinced. "You know the guys are just giving you a hard time, right?"

"I know."

He does. He really does, but he can't explain it. Can't explain this feeling of separation that seems to be going on inside him these days; this feeling of being present, but not entirely. It's like watching himself from a distance.

He can't seem to control his emotions when it comes to Amel, because there's something inside him that moves when she's near. Something that beats and throbs and twists inside his mind. His body. And he thinks it's The Soldier waking up and that terrifies him.

In the mornings, he wakes to find her there, pressed in at his side and, for a moment, everything feels right. Then, it all changes, and his body fills with that heat. With that strange _something more_. And he almost remembers. Watches uneasily as his metal hand reaches for Amel. He can't stop it. Is aware of a small part that doesn't want to.

She doesn't startle when it touches her. Even in her sleep, she smiles and pushes in closer to him, as if she has nothing to fear of him. As if at his side is the safest place in the world.

Her sigh of contentment is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard, and a voice inside him tells him to touch, to taste, to take, because she's beautiful and she's ours.

 _Ours…_

Steve is saying his name now. He looks up. His friend is watching him closely. Carefully.

Steve cares. Steve would understand. Steve can help.

 _He wouldn't,_ the voice, so familiar now and so very like his own, whispers, low and thick and startlingly clear, as if there's someone else standing right next to him, speaking softly into his ear. _He would never understand. He'll think we're crazy._

And, Bucky, in spite of everything, has to agree.

It doesn't make any sense. None at all. He can't explain it. Can't find the proper words to express this feeling of being split in two, out of control, without risking being locked up and monitored again.

"I'm fine," he says again. Tries to convince himself as well.

Steve doesn't believe him, but he doesn't call him on it. Instead, he turns and leans his hips against the sink. Looks back toward the kitchen doorway.

"How are things with Amel?"

"Good."

They are. Sort of. If he discounts the fact that he thinks he's going crazy.

Steve arches a pale brow at him. Curious. "You're remembering?"

He shakes his head. Feels the disappointment rise in him. The agitation and impatience.

"Nothing solid. No."

Steve takes a breath. Releases it through loosely parted lips. "And, Amel?"

For Amel, there's quietly wavering hope. He sees it in her golden eyes, especially in those early moments of waking. Hope when she tells him of things of the past, shared moments that echo in his brain, but don't completely connect.

And he sees the flame die, as well, whenever she absently reaches for his cybernetic arm and he, fearfully, pulls it away. Because he doesn't want to touch her with this...weapon. Is afraid to hurt her, especially with how unsteady he's feeling these days. Is certain she deserves more than a half amnesiac with more issues than years he's been alive.

He is not The Soldier. He is not _her_ Soldier and, eventually, hope won't be enough.

He hangs his head. Curls his hands over the edge of the sink and sighs.

"She's not mine" he mutters. "She belongs to… him."

He senses rather than sees Steve shift.

"You really like her?"

He pauses. Thinks on it. "I do."

She makes him feel safe. Makes him laugh. Smile. She's sweet and rough around the edges. Unapologetic. He desires her. He likes waking up next to her; he hasn't had a single nightmare since she arrived and started sneaking into his bed at night.

He knows she's a woman who sees past all his darkness. And he's terrified that, after all the work he's done over the years in an effort to get back to being some semblance of himself, some semblance of a human being again, the darkness isn't too far away.

He's afraid of losing someone he never really had in the first place. Of not being what she wants.

It's all so crazy.

"Hi."

She's there's suddenly, and Bucky turns to see her standing in the doorway, a soft smile curling at the corners of her her full lips. He wonders how long she's been there. How much she's heard.

Steve straightens. Nods her way. "Hi there, Amel."

She returns his nod. Lifts a small hand to rest against the doorframe. Cocks her head to the side as her eyes slide over Bucky.

"You ok?"

He nods.

Her thin brows furrow momentarily. She moves forward, her bare feet almost silent against the hardwood floors as she pads over to him.

"I smell blood. Lemme see."

She reaches for him and he allows her to take his hand in her soft one. Her skin is warm, slim fingers curling under the back of his as she lifts it for examination. The fingertips of her other hand slip smoothly over the rough skin of his palm, the cuts that are pink and raised and almost completely healed.

When she looks up him again, she smiles lazily, and there's that familiar tightening in his chest. There's a hint of red wine underscoring her cool earth smell. He wants to kiss her.

"Are you drunk, Amel," he asks, offering his own smile, at ease and comfortable enough in her presence to be able to tease. He finds the thought of a drunk Amel very amusing.

Her nose scrunches up. "Wolves don't get drunk. I'm just… pleasantly buzzed." Then, she hiccups for good measure.

He laughs. God, this feels good. Right.

"I'm ready to go when you are. Hawk-dude doesn't believe I can take him and I'm not one hundred percent against proving him wrong."

He nods. Realizes she still holding his hand and how reluctant he is to let go. Stares at her a long, thoughtful moment.

"Ok."

Another soft, endearing smile lights her pretty face. Then, she's pushing into him. Rising up on tiptoe and pressing her forehead into the curve of his neck before sliding her cheek across his chest.

"Thanks, Bucky."

And, with that, she's gone, offering Steve a little wave before she saunters out of the kitchen.

Steve is smiling when Bucky looks at him, an odd little smile that he doesn't understand and makes him feel just a little uncomfortable.

"What," he asks, defensively.

"She just marked you, pal," Steve replies, shaking his head as if he can't believe how dense his friend is being.

Bucky still doesn't understand. "What are you talking about, Steve?"

Steve chuckles. "I did a little research on wolves. Wanted to get to know a little more about Amel. Marking things with their scent is another way wolves stake claim on something. Another way to mark their territory. And, she just marked you as hers."

He laughs again. Shakes his head. "If that doesn't mean she likes you, I don't know what does."

Bucky stares off in the direction Amel disappeared.

This isn't the first time she's done that. He is amazed. Enamored. Takes a slow breath to pull in more of the scent that's clinging to his skin now. Some of the anxiety trickles away at the thought that Amel might actually, really want him. And want him enough to physically stake her claim on him.

But, then, the irritating, haunting voice is back. Sets him on edge once more.

 _Ours…._


	11. Chapter 11

In the days following Stark's impromptu gathering, they find an easy rhythm. Something of a routine.

Most days, Bucky has work, which leaves Amel to entertain herself, though Wanda often visits. Voluntarily spends her off-hours entertaining the she-wolf when Bucky is otherwise indisposed.

The younger girl brings her sugary snacks and paints her nails in varying neon shades. Tells her stories about her dead twin brother. Amel tells her about her dead packmates.

She's glad for the company, and understands the girl's loneliness. Looks at her like something of a kindred spirit. But, her eyes are forever watching the clock. Counting down the minutes until the front door swings open and Bucky comes sauntering in, a soft, almost relieved smile on his handsome face.

When he's away, Bucky finds himself in a near constant state of discomfort and agitation. Between the seemingly never-ending whispering of the Soldier in his ear - he's certain now of this - and the tumbling thoughts of Amel, he's unfocused and practically useless. However, in Amel's presence, the voice is nearly silent. Content, apparently, to be near her.

She's no longer sneaking into his room at night. Instead, she's simply there when he gets out of the shower, sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed, looking small and sweet, her gold-rimmed eyes flashing up at him and her bare legs peeking from beneath whatever oversized shirt she's chosen to sleep in that night.

He dreams, of course, of winter and fire. Images underscored by shadow and heavy with the scent of pine. Of Amel. He instinctively reaches for her upon waking. Pulls her in as close as he can with his flesh and blood arm, still hesitant to touch her with the metal one, though the voice wants him to. Urges him forward. Tempts him to claim her with _both_ hands.

Things are good. Quiet. Easy.

Mostly.

It's on one of these nights when they're laying tangled together, talking about everything and nothing in particular, both very much aware of the presence of the other, that Amel says something which immediately sets Bucky on edge. Brings back his insecurities.

"I need to get out of here."

Amel, comfortably nestled against his side, her thin fingers tapping out a lazy rhythm at the base of his ribcage, feels the tension rocket through him. She realizes after a moment exactly what she's said. What it sounds like.

Bucky unconsciously curls his arm much tighter around her waist. Jerks a bit when she rises up on an elbow to stare down at him.

"That's not what it sounded like," she assures him. Then tries not to laugh at his almost stricken look.

He stares at her a long moment. Watches faint shadows shifting over the contours of her face. Wants to pull her down and kiss her incredibly soft-looking lips. In the handful of nights they've spent like this, they've gone no further than this languid, innocent cuddling.

"What do you mean?"

She lifts a hand. Brushes a lock of dark hair from his cheek. "I'm going stir crazy, Bucky," she says, and he catches a hint of strain in her voice. "I'm a wolf. I'm not made to be cooped up like this."

He licks his lips and her eyes track the movement. She smooths her hand down the center of his chest. Loves the feel of her body molded against his. Between the restlessness of her wolf and her ever-growing neediness now that she and Bucky have gotten rid of the pretenses, she's become quite a mess. She wants him, though she isn't sure how much longer she can tiptoe around it, if she's completely honest.

His dark brow furrows. He can feel her heart beating at his side.

"You want to go home?"

It aches just saying the words aloud. Despite all this, this nearness and the time they've spent together, getting to know one another, that thought still hangs over his head.

She reads it in his eyes. "No, Bucky. I just mean, I need to run. To hunt. Something."

Relief wavers through him, soft and edging on hopeful. "You'll still stay?"

She smiles. Scratches her nails along the scruff of his beard. "Yeah. I like it here."

His arm trails up her back. Thick fingers flatten between her shoulderblades.

"What about… _him?_ "

She supposes they would have come to it eventually. She hasn't said anything about what happened at Stark's dinner party. Hasn't mentioned overhearing his conversation with Steve. She understands his uncertainty. Feels a shadowy bit of guilt and sadness flutter through her stomach.

She shifts. Rests her hand on his chest and her chin on the back of it. "I came here for the Soldier, of course, and yes, I still had some hope…"

Her gaze drifts, eyes going unfocused for a moment, and Bucky's heart thumps soundly inside his chest. He can see the longing in her eyes. The sadness. Thinks of how strange it is to be jealous of himself.

But, she's smiling again when she looks at him. "I like you. I like you a lot. You're kind. And sweet. And, you've been good to me, even though you had no idea who I was. Who I am."

She moves and his breath catches in his throat when she nuzzles her nose into the side of his neck. Brushes her smooth cheek against his rough one.

Since his conversation with Steve, he knows what Amel is doing now. And the combination of her marking him and her honest admission fills him with a flickering sort of joy.

He smiles.

"I'm glad," he says. "Really glad."

She chuckles. Pulls back enough to grin teasingly down at him. "Sounds more like 'relieved'."

He doesn't stop the laugh that rises in his throat, something he's doing much more of lately.

"Yeah. Okay. Relieved."

His fingers drift along her spine. It's an absent touch, innocent really, but the weight of his fingers even through the fabric of her shirt sends a shiver tickling up her spine. Has her wolf, who's been so close to the surface these days, equally as needy and wanting as her mistress, rising up and pushing rebelliously against the barrier of her skin and bones.

Bucky seems to feel it as well. Concern shifts in his blue eyes. "You ok?"

Amel nods. "Yeah. Yes. Just… my wolf's getting impatient."

She tries to laugh it off, but the sound comes out strained. Uneasy.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Can you hold on until tomorrow night? I can take you somewhere outside the city."

She nods. Relaxes as much as she can with her wolf moving beneath her skin. Rests her face in the curve of his shoulder. Enjoys the the warm, clean smell of his skin. The electric scent of his metal arm.

"Yeah. I can keep it together."

"Do you need to shift now? Would that help?"

It probably would, but she doesn't want to give this up. Doesn't want to let go of him.

Unthinking she presses in even closer. Brushes her lips over his neck, the need for touch growing larger. More forceful.

Heat washes over Bucky's skin at the contact, at the smooth feel of her lips and the pillowy softness of her breasts against his side. He should tell her to stop, has no idea of the type of control he has now, especially when it comes to her, but he can't get his mouth to form the words.

Instead, his arm curves around her back. His head turns as she follows the line of his jaw to his chin, and he accepts the kiss she places against his lips.

It's gentle. Almost chaste. Just the molding of mouths. A simple bit of pressure and heat. He opens his eyes to look down at her. Her own are shimmering pools of pure, molten gold. She looks wild and beautiful, and she's kissing him again before he can pull her back for more.

Amel doesn't know how she's held off this long. Bucky's so warm and real and alive. She slants her mouth over his, the hunger, the need rising higher. Vibrating sharper. Shuddering and dancing over her flesh. Coaxing her wolf forward. And when she opens for him, he willingly slicks his tongue between her parted lips. Sighs at the sparking taste of him exploding over her tastebuds. She curls her fingers in his hair to pull him closer. To drink deeper.

Her wolf stretches. Moves. Has her rising up and over him.

And Bucky gasps at her sudden movement, anxiety welling up inside his chest despite the delicious weight of Amel atop him. He reels back. Manages to suck in a quick breath before she's kissing him again.

She feels so perfect, her knees on either side of his hips. Her luscious, rounded breasts. Her lips. Every long, hungry swipe of her wet tongue around his own. And, then - _oh, fuck -_ she's settling over him and he can feel the heat of her cunt through the flimsy layers of their clothing.

His brain grows hazy, cloudy with lust but, even so, he is mindful of the metal arm. He cups his flesh and blood fingers around the back of her neck. Holds her steady so he can kiss her deeper still, lost in the dark taste of her. She doesn't seem to mind his eagerness. In fact, she meets it in equal measure.

Amel only realizes she's moving when Bucky moans into her mouth, when pleasure spirals up from her core where their bodies are pressed flush, and straight to the base of her skull. It pulses in dark writhing reds and dancing royal blues. Makes her wolf keen, high and needy. She rolls her hips, seeking more of the wonderful friction, and Bucky huffs out another moan.

She pulls back enough to look down at him, and is caught by the beautiful sight of him, his tousled hair and kiss-swollen lips. She shifts. Feels the head of his cock rubbing firmly against her clit, and shudders.

" _Fuck_ , Amel," he murmurs, brow furrowed, hips rising hesitantly to meet her, his body instinctively seeking her warmth. He wants to stop. Knows he should but, God, she looks so fucking amazing moving above him like this. He's already ridiculously, embarrassingly close. Feels like some inexperienced teenager on the verge of losing it. It's just been so long...

She sees the struggle in him. Smiles to herself knowing she's making him feel this way. Wants to see him shatter beneath her, to know he feels just as wild and out of control as she does.

So, she keeps moving, this time slipping gracefully down the long line of his body, her hands immediately curling under the waistband of his sweats.

He stiffens. Stares down at her, at her sparking, golden eyes, knowing full well that if he let's her do what she looks like she's intending to do, he's a goner for sure.

But, then she's smiling, slow and sweet, and he doesn't care anymore. Even lifts his hips to help when she starts to tug at his pants, because the thought of those beautiful, sinful lips on him is enough to short-circuit his brain. Enough to make him forget about the Soldier, or the fact that he's certain he won't last this first time around.

She tugs until his cock springs free. And he's beautiful. Long and thick. Arching up over his lower stomach. Her mouth waters at the sight of it. Her wolf makes some low, hungry sound that echoes at the back of her throat.

Bucky breathes deep, the fingers of both hands curled into the cover top, knowing in an instant that she's going to wreck him. Leave him more of a broken mess than he was before he met her.

She leans forward. Places both hands on either side of his waist. Noses along the cut of one well-defined hip. Thinks to herself that one man should not be this beautiful. But he is. And he's hers.

She drags her tongue across his skin. Sinks her teeth lightly, playfully into the taut muscle of his right thigh. Rolls her gaze upward to watch him when she licks a slow, thick stripe up the underside of his twitching cock.

The air locks in his lungs the moment her soft little tongue touches him. It's just her tongue, she hasn't even taken him into her mouth and already his brain is melting.

Pleasure curls through his balls. Shudders through his gut. Ignites in a jagged line of flickering flame up his spine. She licks him again and he's hissing out air through tightly clenched teeth.

Perhaps it's her wolf, perhaps it's simply feminine pride, but Amel likes him like this. Likes him shaking and on edge and hardly in control. Wanting and needy. This nearly stoic man who's treated her with such gentleness, such respect, is coming apart for her. She closes her lips around the thick head of his cock. Tastes the salt of his precum. Watches his eyelids flutter as he tries to keep his gaze on her.

"Amel," is all he can say, and he's not certain if he's asking for more or pleading with her to stop. And when she dips lower, takes more of him into the hot, wet cavern of her mouth, the sight of his pale shaft disappearing between her dark, luscious lips is almost too much to bear.

The sounds that come out of him border on tortured. Torn. He's fighting a primal urge to fuck into her mouth. He lifts his Hand and fists it in his own hair. Tugs sharply to offset the overwhelming need to come.

Amel quickly finds a rhythm, rippling her tongue along his shaft on each deep advance and sucking hungrily on every retreat. She marvels at the slick taste of him. Adores the heavy weight of him in her mouth and the shaky, breathless curses he's rasping above her. He's holding on so tightly, trying so hard to keep himself in check and she admires him for it, but she wants more. Craves it. Burns for it.

Without thinking she stretches a hand up, slips it under the hem of his t-shirt and lightly drags her nails down his stomach.

He doesn't know why but the sharp prick of her nails in his skin sets him off, sends him crashing over the edge. Every muscle in his body locks up as pleasure floods him, his whole world shrunk down and centered entirely on the hot pull of Amel's wonderful mouth. He comes hard and long, hips spasming, mouth open and filling the air around them with rough grunts and harsh groans. And Amel takes it. All of him.

She releases him slowly, reluctantly. Licks her lips in an effort to savor his taste. Then, crawls gingerly back up his body as he works to catch his breath. He's watching her, blue eyes with pupils blown impossibly wide gazing at her in complete awe and utter adoration.

When she's close enough, he clamps his flesh and blood hand over the back of her neck. Pulls her in. Kisses her roughly. Possessively. Her wolf stirs, momentarily sated, though still very hungry.

"I'm sorry," he says, breathless, his voice low and a little hoarse. He rests his forehead against her temple. "It's been…a long time."

"Don't you dare apologize for that."

She smiles into his skin. Presses soft kisses to his cheek. The corner of his mouth. "I like making you feel good."

She's far too good for him. He doesn't deserve her. He's one thousand percent certain of it. He never wants to let her go.

"Lemme return the favor."

He thinks she giggles, light and airy, and he reaches for the hem of her shirt. Bunches it in both hands before tugging it swiftly over her head. He stops to look at her. Pauses to take in the shadowy slopes and lines of her form where she kneels next to him on the bed.

Seeing her naked that first time, when she'd shifted, had been a mess. His brain had been twisted up in anger and desire. But, now, he sees her. Sees the darkness of her skin and the tempting swell of her breasts. Hips made to grasp. To hold. To press. Lean, curvy legs curled under a decidedly round and perfect ass. He wants to touch her, every inch of her. To mark her skin with his lips and tongue.

He stares at her for long moments, merely drinking in the sight of her with dark, hungry eyes. Her skin hums with all the energy it's taking to contain her beast. Her thighs are slick with desire. Trembling.

Finally, thankfully, he lifts his large flesh and blood hand. Flattens his palm and splays his long fingers at the base of her throat. She's certain he can feel the rapid beating of her heart. The thick pounding of it just below the surface of her skin.

His hand glides lower. Curves around the outside of one heavy breast. Hefts its weight in his open palm. He watches the movement of his hand and she watches him, involuntarily arching into his touch. Then, he's leaning forward to place a tender kiss against her skin, right above her swollen, aching nipple, before dipping his head and sucking it into his mouth.

Amel moans quietly, pleasure spiking and arcing like lightening straight to her core. She lifts her own hand to curl through his hair. Holds him there as his mouth works at her tit, alternating between short swipes of his tongue and hot, steady pulls on the sensitive bud.

She shifts. Tries to push more of her flesh into his mouth. Feels him chuckle, the sound echoing through her and causing her stomach muscles to jump and twitch.

"Bucky," she sighs out, and the soft utterance of his name is full of all the longing twisting up her spine and sparking through her brain.

He releases her nipple with a soft pop. Turns his face to place gentle kisses in the valley between her now shallowly heaving breasts, where the skin is smooth and fragrant. Focuses his attention on the other breast. Adds teeth to his ministrations to pull more deep moans out of her.

He loves the sounds she's making for him, the shuddering sighs and the low, needy groans. Loves that he can make her feel good. Can't remember the last time he'd put any energy into making someone _feel good_.

That's a dangerous line of thought, so he focuses on the feel of her flesh between his lips, the way it gives beneath his teeth and feels himself beginning to stir again, the need already growing thick and heavy in his gut.

How many times had she thought about Bucky's lips, wondered what they would feel like on her body? And the reality of it is so much better than what she could have conjured inside her overheated mind. The light scratch of his beard is a delicious tease. She wants more.

Bucky's arm snakes around her waist. Pulls her in flush against him. He uses the weight of his big, strong body to turn her and lower her gently to the bed. And it's a relief to have him even closer still. To feel the weight if him over her, pinning her to the mattress.

Bucky can smell her need, her desire for him. It's thick and heady, and he reluctantly releases his hold on her breast to follow the tantalizing scent to its source. He trails his lips lower, bracing his hands on either side of her body as he places long, lingering wet kisses over her skin.

She writhes beneath him. Sighs. Startles him when she closes her fingers around his metal wrist.

She senses the change in him immediately. Feels the tension overtake his body. Of course she knows how he feels about the limb, hasn't failed to notice how he manages to keep it from ever really touching her. But, she doesn't care about that. Has never cared about it. Wants him to know that she wants and accepts all of him, especially here and now, with her open and ready for him.

He tries to slyly pull his wrist out of her grasp. Tries to distract her with the pressure of his teeth in her side, but she's having none of it, and disappointment slithers sharply through him.

"Amel," he pleads lowly, briefly resting his forehead against the soft slope of her stomach. He leans back. Gazes up the line of her body. Watches the light dance and flicker in her lovely eyes. He doesn't want to ruin this wonderful moment.

She understands. God, does she understands, but she won't allow it to come between them. Won't allow him to hide from him anymore.

"Don't you dare hold back on me, Bucky. And, don't you dare half-ass this." Her voice is low, but she's demanding, pleading with him to let this go.

She releases him. Reaches out to trail her slim fingers down his scruffy cheek. Over the jumping pulse in his throat. Along the curve of his shoulder where flesh gives way to metal. He flinches, expecting pain, but there's none. Only the feather-soft caress of her fingertips.

There's a long moment of indecision. He's crouched above her, waiting for her to realize what she's asking for. But she only smiles at him. Allows her hand to drift lower, smoothing over the shining metal. He can't feel the touch, not really, only the pressure and weight of her palm.

Her eyes beg him to let go. To trust her. To trust himself. To give himself a chance. And maybe it's the hopeful light in her eyes, maybe it's the scent of her wafting up and tickling tantalizing fingers through his brain. Whatever it is, he finds himself moving, giving in, relief washing through him as he presses his hand against her side, allowing his cool metal fingers to splay out of her ribcage.

She doesn't pull away. She makes a low, content sound. Smiles as her eyes flutter shut.

He can give this to her. His arm doesn't have to be a weapon anymore, especially if _she_ can believe it to be otherwise.

Inside Amel is rejoicing. If she could, she thinks she would be jumping for joy as Bucky finally begins to relax. Instead, she's squirming at the smooth glide of his metal hand down her side. It moves over and under her hip. Firmly cups one rounded ass cheek. And it feels so fucking good.

He's kissing her again, marking her flesh with fiery kisses. She yelps, then giggles when his tongue dips into her belly button. Lower still. He noses through the short, soft curls at the juncture of her thighs. Uses his broad shoulders to open her legs wide.

Bucky thinks this is heaven, this wild, beautiful woman laid out before him, his face so close to her core he can see the droplets of her desire clinging to her dark, velvety folds. He inhales. Pulls her spice and earth smell deep into his lungs. Holds it there. Feels the moisture gathering at the tip of his tongue, his own desire forming a tight ball inside his chest. He wants to take his time with her. To enjoy her. To give her the pleasure she'd so willingly given him. But the need is too sharp. Too big and full.

The first pass of Bucky's tongue brings Amel's hips rocking up off the bed. The second has her gasping and she opens her eyes to look down at him, her breath stalling in her chest.

Bucky's deep blue eyes are watching her from beneath the messy fall of his hair that's shadowing his face, his mouth open as he uses the tip of his thick tongue to split her open. He looks dangerous. Predatory. And her wolf keens at the sight of him nestled between her thighs, feasting on her flesh.

Amel's taste is overwhelming. Delicious. Perfect. Calls him deeper, lapping and licking with fervor even he hadn't expected. And her body shifts and moves over e need, appearing to be dancing for him as he pulls the pleasure from her. Drinks it down.

She's saying his name, calling out to him, chanting it and he doesn't think he's ever heard his name spoken in such a way. He doubles his efforts, wanting more, determined to watch her come apart.

When his metal fingers slip along her core, she's nearly done. Amel tenses, waits, then practically melts when he slips a single metal finger inside her.

" _Ohhhh_ , fuck," she rasps, hands digging into the covers, pleasure swelling and rocketing through her. Bucky pulls back. Slowly slips his finger back into her clutching core. She moans. Snakes her hips. Begs him for more.

And, Bucky willingly obliges, sealing his lips over her clit as he begins to fuck her with short, shallow thrusts.

Amel can't breathe, can't think past the feel of him moving inside her, past the relentless lashing of his tongue against her pulsing clit. The pleasure rises, flashes like lightning behind her tightly closed eyelids and, suddenly, she's coming. Crying out in harsh bursts. Wantonly grinding against Bucky's hand.

Amel coming is possibly the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. And the fact that she's come on his metal fingers, from the pleasure he gave her with them, is not lost on Bucky.

He rides her through her orgasm, thrusting his fingers slowly within her tight, hot sheathe. Watches her shuddering breasts and winding hips until he can pull no more from her.

When she's come down, when all that's left is the sound of her stilted breaths filling the air, he softly kisses her thigh and moves up to lay down beside her. Pulls her in close and tight with both arms. Buries his face in the slick skin of her neck.

She coos quietly. Nestles in close to him.

They are silent. Wallowing in the moment. Content. Connected now in this new and wonderful way. Words are not needed. They're not necessary. The pounding of their hearts, their clutching hands, tells it all.

Eventually, they begin to drift.

Sated.

Lazy.

Happy.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bucky realizes the whispers have ceased. It's only him and Amel cuddled close in the quiet stillness of his bedroom, his strong body curved protectively around her small one. And…

Silence...


	12. Chapter 12

_She's been gone too long._

 _The sun had begun to set in her absence, casting the late- winter sky in varying shades of gray and, despite the cold, The Soldier has remained sitting on the steps of the little cabin, watching the tree line closely for any signs of movement. For signs of Amel's return. She said she'd caught the scent of a doe around dawn and intended to hunt it._

 _She'd taken no weapons with her._

 _She's a wolf, much larger than an average-sized dog. He understands what this means, has seen her shift to her wolf form on several occasions, though he still finds it hard to imagine this odd little woman taking down anything much larger than herself._

 _What does he know really? His interactions over the years have been limited to technicians and scientists. His Handlers. No one like Amel. No one as fierce and headstrong as her. Because only someone like her, someone stubborn and uncaring of her own safety, obviously, would consider taking in the likes of him. A Killer. A Machine. A Weapon._

 _He finds her confusing._

 _She talks to him, and continues to talk to him even when she's met with silence in return._

 _He finds her unnerving._

 _She's allowed him to stay in this place for almost two months and has asked only a handful of questions about where he'd come from and how he came to be in her woods, eventually ending in what she's planning to prepare for their dinner._

 _She is unafraid of him, even when he wakes, disoriented and terrified from one of the many nightmares which have plagued him lately, with his fingers around her throat. Soothes and grounds him with the touch of her soft, steady hands._

 _If he's not found soon, he runs the very real risk of killing her if there ever came a time when he couldn't distinguish dream from reality._

 _She is a fearless, strong, beautiful, generous woman and he has no fucking clue_ why _she's allowed him to stay._

 _He is a danger to her. His very presence, aside from the fact that Hydra is most assuredly looking for him, puts her at risk. But, he can't force himself to leave. Despite what he is, despite the frequent nightmares and the ever-present, very real threat of Hydra, he finds himself drawn to her._

 _Amel cares for him. Has cared_ for _him. She treats him like he's human. Like he's real. And the temptation of that alone is…_

 _Dangerous._

 _He's gotten too close. Allowed himself to settle into her quiet routine. Started seeing her differently._

 _He recalls very vividly the warmth which had overtaken him a few mornings prior when she'd come stumbling out of her bedroom in little more than an oversized shirt. He'd watched, silent as usual, as she shuffled into the living room on those beautiful, bare brown legs, and wanted nothing more than to know what they felt like wrapped around his waist, holding him close. Tight. Safe._

 _She'd made her way, as she normally did, toward the fireplace, intent on rekindling the fire which had burned down to almost nothing over the course of the night, and the wide collar of the shirt had slipped down to expose the curve of her shoulder._

 _Sitting on the steps now, he remembers the sharp stab of desire which had blasted through him at the realization that she was naked under that shirt. Sees her, even now, turning quickly as if she'd felt the weight of his gaze, to find him staring at the place where the hem had ridden up on her thighs when she'd bent over. The understanding which had lit off in her gold-edged eyes when his finally met hers..._

 _He almost went to her then. Taken her. Kissed her. Crushed her lush little body to him. But the sudden, sharp intake of her breath had stopped him. And he'd watched from his place on her couch as she slipped quietly away, the fire having been forgotten._

 _He's a danger to her. Unsteady. Wavering on the very edge of control._

 _So, why doesn't he leave?_

 _Movement beyond the treeline gets his attention. Has him sitting up straighter. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, as he waits to see who, or what, will emerge._

 _It's Amel cutting slowly, gracefully, through the forest, her eyes downcast and, for a moment, relief washes over him. Until he really takes in the sight of her. Then something else altogether twists inside him. Opens, raw and wide, inside his chest. Has him rising from his position on the cabin's front steps and stalking toward her across the cold, hard-packed earth._

 _She's naked. Utterly and completely naked. He doesn't know where her clothes went and he doesn't care. All he can see are the beautiful slopes and lines of her smooth brown skin; the supple curve of the muscles of her thighs as she strides forward; the generous swell of her hips; the unhindered sway of her dark breasts._

 _It's too much. He can feel his blood pounding, storming through his veins. Realizes he's hard as steel beneath his borrowed jeans and, in that instant, unable to recall ever wanting anything so fiercely._

 _He's only a few feet away when she finally breaks through the treeline, and she looks up at him, for a moment startled, as if she's only just noticed his approach. Her eyes, entirely gold now and glinting faintly in the fading light, take in his quickly advancing form._

 _It's the lack of fear in those eyes, and what looks to be blood staining her full, perfect lips, which keeps him moving. Has him practically crashing into her, his arms going around her body, his hands going to her ass, gripping it tightly and using it to pull her roughly up to him._

 _She immediately wraps her legs, those gorgeous legs, around him. Her hands grip his shoulders and, somewhere in the back of his cloudy brain, in whatever distant part of him which still registers beyond the feel of her in his arms and the warm, welcoming smell of her, that she's strong. Beautiful and wild and strong._

Mine…

 _He's moving still, not even breaking stride and turning them until he's got her shoved up against a tree, his hips slotted between her thighs and her fingers in his hair. He presses into her. Grinds himself roughly against her core. Feels the flames of pleasure and desire licking up his spine. Lets out a frustrated, furious growl because he isn't close enough. Wants to be inside her. Needs it more than anything right now._

 _He curls his metal arm beneath her. Holds her effortlessly in place while his flesh hand fumbles between them. He manages to tear off the button in his haste. Tugs the zipper down roughly. Is only vaguely aware of the tremor of his usually steady hand as he clumsily shoves the jeans down his thighs._

 _He's panting like a winded, wounded animal. Greedy and needful. Hungry for this, the feel of her wrapped around him, taking him in. Hungry for Amel._

 _Cock in hand, he hefts her upward before angling his hips. And then he's lunging forward, driving into her, crying out loud enough to startle a flock of nearby birds nesting in the surrounding trees. Her slick heat envelopes him. Cradles him. Claims him..._

Mine…

Bucky awakes with a start, hard and heavy, and immediately aware of being alone in the big bed, though he'd fallen asleep with Amel tucked securely under his arm. He sucks in a long, ragged breath, his heart pounding furiously in his chest, the air beginning to chill the thin sheen of sweat covering his skin.

After a long moment, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Drops his head into his hands and tries to will his body to stop shaking.

A dream. Only a dream, but more real and clear than any he's had of late. Even now, alone in the dark, he can feel her. Can recall the sweet give of her flesh as he'd thrust into her. Can smell the blood on her skin mixed with the scent of the forest surrounding them.

The Soldier had wanted her. Wanted her in a hard, greedy way, the feeling so strong and so deep it's like a rock in the pit of his stomach. Had he hurt her in his impatience, in his rough taking?

Amel said The Soldier had never harmed her, never laid a hand on her, but he knows that's not completely true, especially if there's any truth to be found in this dream. If he's going by the way The Soldier had behaved, his mindless, animalian reaction to her.

He thinks this not knowing, this spotty remembering, twisted up with the insane need, this churning desire, for her will be the death of him.

When he feels solid, at least solid enough, he pushes up from the bed and moves out of the room. The dream has left him thirsty and unbearably hot.

Amel is in the kitchen. Not ready to face her just yet, Bucky almost stops in his tracks and turns around when he sees her sitting on the kitchen table, long brown legs swaying lazily, back and forth, over the edge.

She lifts wide eyes to him, a surprised smile twisting the corners of her lush lips.

"Hey," she says, mouth half full, waving the spoon she'd been about to dig into the carton of ice cream nestled between her thighs. "Did I wake you?"

He shakes his head. Doesn't let his eyes linger too long on the curve of her thigh atop the table, because the need is still thrumming through his veins. He stalks to the fridge. Pulls out a bottle of water. Turning, he leans his back against the cool surface of the fridge as he twists off the cap.

Her gold-rimmed eyes glance over him before she digs out another spoonful of her pilfered treat.

"What's wrong?'

"I was… dreaming.

She nods. "You look a little shell-shocked. Nightmare?"

"No," he replies hastily, realizing with a sick feeling that, at least, that part of the dream is true.

"Then what's got you so rattled?"

She watches him, head cocked to the side as she brings the spoon to her lips. 

A spike of longing lances through his stomach. He swallows, far too focused on the way her lips curl around the utensil.

There's a long moment of silence. Then, "You."

Her shoulders hitch and her thin brow furrows. " _Me_? What did I do?"

"You went hunting. He waited for you. You came back naked."

He watches her face. Tries to find meaning in the twitch of her lips. The flash of her eyes.

"I don't know if it's real. If it really happened."

She licks her lips. Picks up the lid from the ice cream carton and replaces it with much too much care. She doesn't respond, simply slides gracefully down from the table and goes to drop the spoon in the sink. She pads quietly to where he's standing and he steps aside so she can put the ice cream back in the freezer. She's still careful when she closes the freezer door. Answers with her hand still on the handle.

"It was real. Very real."

Her words hit him in the chest. Cause a sharp tightening there and his dick to twitch behind the loose fabric of his sweats.

"We…? I…?" He doesn't know what to say. Stares down at her and watches a splash of red rising at the tips of her ears.

"The first time. Yes," she says, and there's a breathless quality to her voice, more than just being lost in the memory. It's what the memory makes her feel.

She flattens her hand against the fridge. Splays her fingers wide over the surface.

"I was surprised, but it wasn't unexpected. We'd been dancing around it long enough. You practically attacked me."

She laughs softly, her eyes going glassy.

She moves her hand slowly back and forth over the surface of the freezer door, her eyes tracking the movement.

"You rushed me. Literally swept me off my feet. Slammed me back into the nearest tree."

Her voice, the gentle, rolling cadence of her words, takes him to that place. Creates again in bright and vivid color what she's describing for him.

"There was still blood on my tongue, but it didn't seem to bother you. You didn't care at all. And, you were so…"

She pauses. Sucks on her lower lip as she searches for the word.

"Hungry," she finally sighs out. "For touch. For connection. For me, I guess."

And he understands. Can feel it inside him, in that hollow place which is throbbing now, screaming for him to reach out. To grab her. To take her. To taste her skin. Feels the need vibrating down the length of his spine and bringing his cock to full, aching attention.

"You held me there, against the tree. Held my legs open wide, growled into my mouth as you fucked me. Hard and deep and… so damn perfect."

His skin feels so tight. So hot. The vision of the woods dissolves, only to be replaced by a vision of her bent over the kitchen table with his metal hand in her hair. Can't figure if this is The Soldier's response, or his own.

"Doesn't sound very romantic," he finally manages. Realizes it's probably not the right thing to say in this moment. This is made even more clear when her eyes snap up to him, flashing and sparking in the low light, some of the gold widening and bleeding into the dark brown.

"It didn't have to be. It wasn't supposed to be. It's what we needed," she says, and he hears anger in her words, as if he's twisted the moment and turned it into something brutal and ugly. Because she doesn't see it that way. Doesn't see _him_ that way.

She waves her hand. Turns and settles heavily against the freezer door.

"You don't remember, but I assure you, he's not who you think he was. Not with me."

Bucky wants to believe her.

He looks away. The soft whir and click of his cybernetic arm fills the space around them when he balls his metal fingers into a fist.

"He could have killed you, Amel," he says softly, quietly, the pain of it cutting through his chest. "Could have woken from a nightmare and snapped your neck without even realizing it."

"He didn't."

"He could have," he says, growing angry now at her inability to understand this. "You don't know the half of what he's done. The things he's capable of doing."

If he thought she'd back down, he is mistaken. She turns towards him, her thin brow furrowed. There's a vein popping out of the side of her neck, standing out starkly beneath the soft brown flesh of her throat.

"He _didn't!_ Bucky, _you_ didn't!"

Her words are sharp, loud inside the small, dimly lit space of the kitchen, and underscored with the rumbling growl of her wolf. They hit him full force. He takes a small step back... and he understands. 

And it's more than he can take. More than he can hope. She calls him Bucky. Not Soldier. She knows who he is. 

He bends down and slants his mouth over hers before he can think twice about it. Her lips are soft and warm.

He curls the fingers of his flesh and blood hand over her neck. Sweeps his thumb over her cheek. Presses in for more despite the tension of her body. His tongue slicks into her mouth and he's tasting her, not merely the hint of strawberry from the ice cream she'd been eating, no, he's tasting snow on her lips and blood on her tongue. Winter and fire. Ice and the sweet air of the forest. It blazes through his brain. Embers igniting in the shadows of his mind.

Finally, she begins to soften, her hands coming up to curl at his waist, tugging him in closer, tighter, her lush breasts arching into him. She's opening beneath him, welcoming him, her anger slowly bleeding away.

Her eyes are closed when he pulls away. She takes a long, slow breath before finally looking at him again, and when she does, he thinks of how wonderful it would be to know what it feels like - to be loved by this beautiful, fearless woman without the ghost of The Soldier looming over them.

He brings his metal hand up to cup her cheek. She closes her fingers around his wrist and holds him to her.

"Bucky," she sighs. Pleading. Bumps her hips into his and nuzzles her cheek against his metal palm, warming it with the heat of her skin. Her softly panted breaths.

He thinks he should take her back to bed, finish what they'd started earlier, but he's impatient.

She lets out a startled yelp when he lifts her off her feet, his hands on the backs of her thighs and her knees tightening above his hips. She circles her arms about his neck. Meets him with eagerness when he goes in to kiss her again.

Turning, he strides toward the table. Lets her slip down until she's perched on its edge once again.

Light dances in her eyes as she gazes up at him, the bands of color brighter now, beginning to overtake the deep, dark brown.

He understands the Soldier's desire for Amel. The pulsing, aching want. His need to claim and devour her. She is wild. Unapologetic. A fighter. Devoted. Generous. Loving. Everything he'd needed and never knew it.

He bends down, kisses her a bit more roughly, hungrily, tugging the hem of her shirt up before stepping into the space she makes for him between her parted thighs.

There's no reservation in him now. None of the heavy, ominous clouds of anxiety or hesitation because all that matters now is this - Amel with her sparking dark eyes, her full lips parted as she sighs his name, and her needy, rough hands as she shoves his sweats down and over his hips.

He sucks in a sharp breath when her fingers curl around the length of him, his eyes snapping shut as the pleasure swells in his chest. His hips shift, his cock slipping smoothly against her palm, but it's not enough; he wants more.

With a low growl of his own, he reaches between them and uses his metal fingers to push aside the wet crotch of her panties. She guides him forward, scooting her ass to the very edge of the table. Lifts up to meet him. His brain registers her heat, her slickness coating the head of his cock, but then he's pushing forward, thrusting inside her as she lets out a sharp cry, and the air locks in his lungs.

He isn't prepared. Bucky isn't prepared for the close, wet feel of her. The delicious, fluttering clutch of her walls around him. His hands go to her hips and he stutters out a breath, already close, too close, to coming.

Amel whimpers, her palms flattening over his chest, then sliding upward to curl over the back of his neck and pull him down. She kisses him roughly, growling into his mouth and rocking her hips in entreaty.

"God, Amel…" he pants against her mouth. The pleasure is there, riding just below the surface of his skin, vibrating, filling him with fire and light, and he bands his metal arm around her waist. Pulls her to him as he begins a rough, steady rhythm.

And, she takes him, takes all of him. Clutches him to her as if she'll never let him go. Says his name over and over again as if she knows nothing else.

" _Bucky… Bucky… Bucky… Bucky…"_


End file.
